Lord Carey's Inheritance

My keeper's name is Gus: a coarse, ungainly syllable for a coarse, ungainly man. His lips are blubbery and he wears a leather apron that is always smeared with grease. There is grease, too, in his hair, which he grows long on one side and flips across to hide his balding pate. I think he rarely washes. His nails are rimmed with dirt. A foul stench precedes him whenever he enters my cell.

He brings me food three times a day: thin porridge, or mutton stew with bread. The battered tin plate rocks when he planks it on the table. He gives me a spoon to eat with. I am allowed neither knife nor fork.

When first I came here I would not touch the slop he gave me. But hunger alters habit. Now, for want of better, I shovel the pigs'-swill down.

This morning, after my meagre breakfast, Gus brought the barber in. This happens twice a week. I first bathed my face in cold water; then the barber proceeded to shave me. I could do the job better myself if they would allow me to hold a razor, but they will not. So I sat very still while he worked, to avoid being nicked. He pushed my face this way and that, just as the fancy took him. It was as if he were moulding clay – and I no more than a statue he was sculpting.

When both had finally left and the door clanged shut, I wanted to rage at the bars – to shout, scream and curse. And once I would have done so. When I first came here, I hurled my imprecations down the echoing corridors for hours and days together. But to no avail. Except for the crying I excited in the other poor wretches here, there was no answer. That silent contempt was worse than a thousand sharper torments.

So this morning I contained my rage. I did not scream. Instead, I took up my pen and began to write ...

~

I will resume my story some eight weeks after my return to Mountjoy. In that time I had established myself as Lord and Master of the house. No door was locked to me; no pleasure was denied.

On the morning of which I write, I was still abed in Lady Arabella's chamber. The Lady herself – my father's widow, you will recall – lay warmly athwart my belly, with my prick in her greedy mouth. Further down the bed lay Dotty, her lady's maid, who performed a similar service for her mistress to that which Arabella afforded me. We were all three of us content: this had, in fact, become our favoured mode of waking. On some days we lay thus 'til noon, in delightful luxury.

On that particular morning, however, we were interrupted by the crunch of iron on gravel, and the squeak of heavy wheels. There ensued a commotion outside and, albeit with some reluctance, I prised Arabella's mouth from my cock and went to the window to look. The scene below was one of confusion, but I saw that a wagon train had arrived and I realised after a moment that this must be Meecham, my erstwhile tutor, returning from Italy with the baggage I had accumulated during my peregrinations through Europe.

I dressed hurriedly and ran down to meet him. There were six conveyances in all, each drawn by half a dozen horses. Meecham lolled beside the driver of the first. His face was florid and an uncorked flask hung loosely from his fist. He had clearly dulled the rigors of the journey by indulgence in spirituous liquors, but that was no surprise to me.

"Well, you old soak," I asked him, "why have you taken so long?"

He stared at me blankly through goggle eyes and I wondered – as I had so many times before – how this drunken, fat old lecher could have attained the dignity of a Doctor of Divinity from the University of Oxford.

"But my – my Lord," he bleated. "I have made all haste. The way from Venice was long and the roads were hazardous. And, there being so many treasures in these wagons, it was necessary to proceed with caution, for fear of being robbed."

As if to demonstrate the value of the cargo, he gestured grandly behind him and tried to descend, all at one and the same moment. As a result of this division of attention, his foot missed the step and he slipped. He teetered for a second, poised between heaven and earth, then fell with a thud to the gravel, in a flurry of frock coat and breeches. His legs kicked absurdly in the air and the carters laughed heartily. They were clearly accustomed to such antics after spending some weeks in his company. Meecham himself, however, was unperturbed. Having finally settled on the ground, he lay back and brought the flask, which he had not relinquished in his fall, to his lips. He took an enlivening swig, then blinked up at me owlishly.

"I think you will find, my Lord," he said calmly, "that everything is in perfect order."

I gave the pathetic fool a kick, and told him to unload the wagons. Then I turned on my heel and returned to Arabella's bed. I had not yet spent seed that morning and my balls were troubling me sorely.

Later, after I had achieved the requisite completion, Arabella lay beside me, dabbing a lacy handkerchief to her ruby lips.

"My Lord," she asked lazily, "have you ever thought of marriage?"

I laughed in frank astonishment. "Madam," I told her, "even putting aside the difference in our ages, the fact that you were once my father's wife would surely preclude our union in the eyes of the Church?"

She laughed merrily in return. "I did not mean marriage to me," she said. "I merely wished to enquire if you had considered that state in general terms."

I admitted the thought of marrying had crossed my mind, but as a somewhat distant prospect. Since I was not yet one-and-twenty, I had time enough to look for a wife.

She nodded in agreement, but then smiled – a little craftily, I fancied.

"That is quite so," she said. "However, I know of a girl who may be your perfect match. She is nineteen years of age, and was presented at Court only last Season. She is said to be charming and agreeable, not wilful in any way, of a modest disposition, and ravishingly pretty as well. She is an orphan, and comes with a sizable fortune – but she is, therefore, much in demand. In fact, she's constantly plagued by suitors. He who would catch her had better be quick. She is a prize worth angling for."

Despite myself, I was intrigued. I asked the lady's name.

"It is Pamela," said Arabella. "Pamela Leduc. She resides in London with her brother, Algernon, who is, of course, the Viscount Leduc. I believe he is also eager to marry, and wishes to divest himself of his sister before he takes a wife."

I had never heard of this Algernon, but I knew the family, which is of French ancestry, was well-connected. It struck me that a stay in London might not go amiss, and that I could call on the Leducs while there, to spy out the land. And if the young lady proved agreeable, why should I not take her on? At the very least, she would provide another moist hole to supplement those I already had access to.

The idea of visiting London grew on me – not least because Mountjoy Hall would be in turmoil for several weeks as Meecham and his labourers unloaded the wagons and disposed the spoils of my Grand Tour about the place. Already they were lugging marble statues and huge paintings from room to room. I knew that, for a while, there would hardly be space to move. Consequently I resolved to go to London and, later that day, I despatched servants to the capital, to open our town house there.

Just as I was making these preparations, my sister Julia came to me. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a roguish smile about her lips.

"Brother," she whispered – careful, it seemed, not to be overheard by the serving people who milled about us. "Would you care to see the presents that Dr Meecham has brought for Juliet and me from Italy?"

My curiosity was piqued and I followed her upstairs to the chamber she shared with her twin. Once there, she closed the door, then went to a shelf upon the wall and took down a polished mahogany box, perhaps a foot in length. She opened it and displayed the contents: six stiff, black, leather phalluses of varying sizes lay nestled on green baize.

"Fine dildoes from Italy!" Julia exclaimed. "Was that not a thoughtful purchase? My sister and I will have much pleasure from these engines, I can assure you."

I murmured congratulations, and privately resolved to hie me to the spy hole in my father's Cabinet – the one that peeped into their bedroom – at a suitable opportunity. I took my leave of her precipitately and called Dotty to my chamber. When she arrived, I took her roughly, not even desiring her to undress. The sight of those dildoes in my sister's hands had so heated my blood, I could not restrain myself. I fucked Dotty faithfully 'til supper time – and only hunger made me finally desist.

*

On the morning I left Mountjoy, I went to the Cabinet to choose a book or two from my father's extensive collection of erotica. I already had with me Theresa Berkley's 'Exhibition of Female Flagellants' – a volume that rarely left my side – but I thought I might while away the idle hours by perusing other examples of perversity while on the road to London. I therefore entered my father's study, took the little silver key from my pocket, and began to unlock the Cabinet door. But there was no need; it gave way to my touch and, swinging open, revealed Meecham within, his prick firmly grasped in his hand, and one of Raimondi's engravings – it was 'The Satyr and the Nymph', I recall – open upon the bench before him.

So intent was the doctor, so lost in his lust, that he did not notice my arrival. I stood for some moments disgusted, watching the sorry spectacle. Then, just as I judged he was about to spend, I coughed loudly – thus startling him. He swung round to face me, prick still in hand. His face was like the rising sun on a misty summer morning. I grinned at him, and shouted:

"Why are you here?"

Then, realising that the answer was self-evident and my question redundant, I added:

"How came you here? Where did you find a key?"

He seemed unable to answer, so I stepped forward and took him by the throat. "Do you think your position in this house allows you the liberty of dallying with my private things?" I asked.

At this he began to splutter – as well he might, since my grip on his throat was tightening – but he finally essayed an answer.

"His lordship, your father," he croaked, "before we left – before he died – entrusted me with a key to this Cabinet. He wished me to make an inventory of his collection."

"And is this how you take inventory?" I asked him, glancing down at his member – which had, in truth, shrivelled considerably in the interim. He spluttered again and began to apologize, saying he had been overwhelmed by the beauty of the piece, by Raimondi's artistry, by the sheer mastery of form, by –

I cut him off. "So you were overcome by Art!" I sneered, then released him suddenly. He staggered back and almost fell. I watched him writhe, though I could not tell if he was more affected by his lack of breath or shame.

"J-Just so, my Lord," he stuttered finally, and stood, head bowed, waiting for whatever fate I might decree for him. I relished the moment. To see the old lecher squirm was an exquisite pleasure. It was almost recompense for his invasion of what was now my private domain.

It was in my mind to dismiss the old man from my service, but I knew his expertise might still be of some value. Since I had no personal affection for Raimondi's Postures, I had bethought me to dispose of them. Meecham, with his extensive knowledge of the artist, might well be the man to arrange an advantageous sale. So, instead of sending him hence with his tail between his legs, I merely beat him about the head a little and made him beg forgiveness. Then I demanded the key he had used to enter the Cabinet. And, when all that was done, I instructed him to make a through inventory of the treasures I had brought from Europe, and warned him sternly that any further intrusions on my privacy would result in the direst consequences.

He nodded, bowed and scraped, then left. I took a little time to choose two books – one titled 'The Lifted Curtain, or Laura's Education'; the other 'The Lustful Turk', an illustrated volume I thought might prove amusing. I also took the sheaf of gambling IOUs my father had left in his bureau, and put them in my pocket. Then, my business done, I locked the door behind me, went down to the waiting carriage, and so set off for London.

*

As soon as I arrived there, I sent a message to Viscount Leduc, requesting an interview at his earliest convenience. And it was not more than two hours later that his answer was returned. He would, he said, be pleased to receive me at his house in Jermyn Street on the following afternoon, at two o'clock.

Accordingly, I presented myself on his doorstep at the designated hour. The street was newly fashionable, and the house was well-appointed – a brick-built edifice four storeys high, with a generous portico at the entrance, and a footman at the door to let me in. Inside, another flunky conducted me upstairs and then to a library. The Viscount awaited me there, standing before the fireplace with a bumper of Malmsey in hand. He was a tall, thin man – at least a head taller than I. He held himself very erect and wore a white silk stock wrapped tightly about his neck. The stock was secured with a diamond pin; his coat and breeches were of the finest cut; his shoe buckles were of silver; his coat buttons were of gold. Though still young – I learned later he had not yet passed his thirtieth year – he was clearly a man of substance; a man to be reckoned with.

He greeted me and offered me a glass, which I accepted. Then, after a modicum of chit-chat regarding my journey to London and the parlous state of the roads, he enquired about the nature of my business.

I explained that I wished, with his permission, to present my compliments to Mistress Pamela. He chuckled at the thought.

"So, Sir," he replied, "you wish to sniff about my sister?"

A little offended, I told him I merely wished to meet the lady. He laughed again.

"She's a prime piece, you know," he told me. "And virgin too, of course. She's never been pierced; never even been pricked a little. And you'd like to know her, would you?"

I could tell that a subtle approach would be wasted on him, so I came directly to the point.

"I'm looking for a mare for breeding, Sir," I told him. "Someone to bear my children, to make it plain. I've heard your sister is suited to the purpose. I'd like to meet her, to see if she fits the part."

"And so you shall," said the Viscount. "We dine at six. She will be there, if you would care to join us."

I said I would be honoured.

Then: "Since we may soon be brothers in law," he said, "may I call you Jonathan?"

"I should be delighted, Sir," I told him.

"And you must call me Algernon," he said. "Will you take another glass of wine with me?"

"I will, Sir," I replied.

And with that, we fell to drinking for the rest of the afternoon.

*

Pamela Leduc was all that Lady Arabella had said. She was dark-haired and demure, with pretty dimples when she smiled. Over dinner, she seemed discomfited by my gaze; her eyes were cast down; her fingers trembled as she ate. But once or twice she glanced up at me with timid, yet sparkling eyes. I saw true lust there, I fancied. I imagined her lying under me, her face contorted in ecstasy as I fucked her long and hard.

Our conversation was not memorable. In fact, Pamela said little. Her brother and I discoursed of dogs and horses while Pamela directed the servants as they discreetly served the meal. She was clearly a woman who knew her place. When she rose from table, I noted the swell of her arse beneath her dress. She had pleasingly broad hips – perfect for child-bearing.

After she had left us and we were sitting with the port, Algernon asked: "So, does the filly pass muster for you?"

I said she did.

"Then you'll take her on? She comes with nine thousand a year and her own estate in Dorset."

I told him that sounded satisfactory.

"There'll have to be a little more of this courting nonsense," he told me. "Walks in the park and so on. For appearances' sake. But I daresay we can have you married in a month, if you're agreeable?"

I nodded my assent and we sealed the bargain with a toast. Then Algernon turned to the more pressing business of the evening's entertainment.

"What say we begin at White's?" he asked. "And then perhaps to a House to round things off?"

I told him his proposal met my own inclination exactly, so we finished our port, then – White's Club being only a stone's throw away – walked around the corner into St. James's Street.

White's that evening was busy: it seemed that half the society of England's magnates rubbed shoulders in the entrance hall. A coronation at Westminster Abbey could scarcely, I thought, have attracted a greater gathering of the nation's nobility.

I had had the forethought to bring my father's IOUs with me and had already noted that the majority of them were signed by a certain Lord Frobisher. I consequently enquired after this noble lord as soon as we arrived, and was told that he was indeed present at the Club that evening and was playing cards in a room on an upper floor. I therefore informed Algernon of my business with the man and we two made our way upstairs to the designated place.

The room we entered was crowded, with perhaps a dozen card tables, each fully subscribed, dotted here and there, and many other people standing watching from the sidelines. There was not, in fact, a free seat in the house. I asked a servant to point Lord Frobisher out to me and, after a mumbling hesitation which I interpreted as a request for pecuniary consideration, the man obliged me. He pointed to a portly, red-faced gentleman in his sixties who wore an old-fashioned, full-bottomed, powdered wig. The man was, I thought, the very embodiment of the Roast Beef of Old England. I gave the flunky a shilling for his pains and drifted towards Lord Frobisher's table.

At a suitable break in the play I stepped forward and made my bow. "May I introduce myself, my Lord," I said. "I am Lord Jonathan Carey of Mountjoy, the son of the recently deceased Lord Reginald Carey. I believe the two of you were well-acquainted?"

Frobisher looked up at me, stared, scowled, and finally harrumphed – though whether from mere surprise at my sudden appearance or from a more serious indignation at the interruption, I could not tell. I noted at that moment that his eyes were a piercing blue, though the fact held no import for me at the time, beyond a passing sense of discomfort at being inspected so searchingly. Undeterred by his less than gracious response, I forged ahead.

"I have lately discovered, my Lord," I told him, "amongst my late father's effects, a large number of IOUs for gambling debts with your signature upon them. Since most are dated from months or years ago, I wonder if I may prevail upon you to settle with me now?"

I became aware at that moment of a communal intake of breath behind me – almost, I fancied, a mute sense of shock throughout the room – and even Algernon, who stood at my shoulder, seemed to stiffen a little. For a moment I doubted myself. I wondered if I had, perhaps, committed a severe solecism; some crime against the mores of the place. But I was instantly reassured when Frobisher thrust out a hand.

"Show me," he grunted, so I took the sheaf of IOUs from my pocket and gave it to him.

"The sum amounts to a little more than eleven thousand guineas, my Lord," I told him. "Though I may, of course, be mistaken in my arithmetic."

He riffled briefly through the sheaf, then raised a hand and snapped his fingers once. A flunky hurried to him instantly.

"Take these directly to my house," Frobisher told the man, "and instruct Bartholomew to scrutinize the figures, then to bring the requisite amount to me here."

He checked himself, then inclined his head to me: "That is, my Lord," he said, "with your permission?"

"Willingly," I answered, and bowed again.

He turned back to his man. "And tell Bartholomew to bring any other relevant documents as well," he added.

The flunky touched his forelock and left.

"And now, my Lord," said Frobisher to me. "Perhaps a game of cards to pass the time until my man arrives?"

"With pleasure, my Lord," I answered. And so sat down to play.

Although there were several men around Lord Frobisher's table, we played at piquet – a game for two alone. The others watched in silence. I felt singularly favoured to have entered the players' circle so swiftly and to be accorded such attention. In fact, I noticed that play had stopped at all the other tables too. All eyes, it seemed, were upon us – the Lord Frobisher and me.

We played for a guinea a point. At the end of the first partie I was almost a hundred guineas to the good; at the end of the second, it was closer to three. After the third, when Frobisher's man Bartholomew arrived, I had won better than five hundred guineas.

Bartholomew – a thin, non-descript figure in funereal black – hurried directly to his master and bent to his ear. After a whispered conversation he set two sheaves of papers on the table. One, I noticed, was my own -- my father's IOUs from Frobisher, now bound with a blue silk ribbon. The other, which was somewhat bulkier, was bound in red.

Frobisher pointed to my father's bundle first. "This, Bartholomew tells me," he said, "amounts to eleven thousand and ninety guineas." I felt a sudden surge of pleasure that I had underestimated his debt to me by so much.

"However," Frobisher went on, now indicating the red-ribboned bundle. "These IOUs are your father's gambling debts to me. They amount to ..." He looked up at Bartholomew inquiringly.

"To fifteen thousand guineas, nine shillings and thre'pence ha'penny, my Lord," said the man.

There was gasp in the room around me. For a moment, I could not comprehend why.

"You see, Lord Carey," Frobisher went on, "your father and I played games of chance together for many years, and a tradition grew up between us that each would keep the other's IOUs without calling in the debt. Over time, we agreed, the sums owed would even out, so there was no reason to be constantly shuffling money to and fro between us. You, however, were unaware of this arrangement and so – quite reasonably – you have asked me to make good my debt to your father. Which I hereby do."

He spent a little time counting through the red-ribboned pile, then thrust a sizable sheaf of papers towards me.

"Those are your father's IOUs to me," he said, "amounting to some eleven thousand and ninety guineas, plus my current debt to you from our recent game of piquet - another five hundred and forty. So my debts to your father and to yourself are now discharged. Would you not agree?"

I began to see that things were not turning out to my advantage. I swallowed once and nodded grimly.

"And that leaves," Frobisher went on, "a residue of three thousand, three hundred and seventy guineas, which I shall be pleased to receive from you at your earliest convenience.

"I am, of course," he added, "prepared to overlook the matter of the odd nine shillings and thre'pence ha'penny."

I bowed my thanks from where I sat and endeavoured to maintain a cool appearance under the eyes of those who crowded round us.

"I shall have the money sent to you tomorrow, my Lord," I told him. "As soon as the banks are open."

Frobisher smiled for the first time that evening. "That will be satisfactory," he said. "But perhaps it will be unnecessary. You have acquitted yourself well so far at piquet, Lord Carey. Perhaps you would care to continue and attempt to win the money back?"

To this, I willingly assented. We began to play again.

We played for some two hours. At first, I continued to win, though less spectacularly than before. After the first partie, I had won thirty guineas; after the second, sixty. But then matters took a turn for the worse. Lord Frobisher won the third partie handsomely, putting me some three hundred guineas in his debt. He won the next as well and, then, after I had won back a little in the fourth game, he crushed me in the fifth. When he finally totalled the account, I owed him nigh on a thousand guineas.

I knew something was amiss: I knew, in fact, that I had been gulled. In contrast to his initial frostiness, Frobisher had seemed the sole of politeness towards me ever since we had begun to play, but there had been an edge of sarcasm in his voice as well – a hint of malice even. I had been slow to notice this at first but, as the contest wore on and my losses mounted, I began to suspect foul play.

At last, I could bear it no more. "My Lord," I told him icily, "I fail to understand how I could have won so easily for so long, and then have fallen so spectacularly."

Frobisher said nothing, but he cocked a sceptical eyebrow.

"That is, Sir," I said, "to make it plain, I believe you have played me rather than the game of cards."

He looked at me for some moments, then asked me, very quietly:

"Are you perhaps, Lord Carey, accusing me of cheating?"

I took a breath. "I am, Sir," I told him. "I can think of no other explanation for my losses."

Frobisher said nothing. The moment of silence lengthened round the table – lengthened until it became intolerable. Then Algernon tapped me gently upon the shoulder.

"Come, Jonathan," he said. "I believe it is time we depart."

I stood up and stood back from the table and Algernon made a gracious bow to Frobisher.

"I am sure, my Lord," he told him, "that Lord Jonathan here will make good his debts to you in the morning. Please look on his remarks tonight as no more than the consequence of a little too much wine."

This, it seemed to me, was tantamount to betrayal – a travesty of the facts of the situation, since I had clearly been cheated at cards. But Algernon took me firmly by the arm and steered me away.

"Tomorrow, Lord Jonathan, all this will be of no importance," he whispered to me. "So now let us continue to the more agreeable part of our evening."

I was still hot with indignation at Frobisher's treatment of me, but, with my imminent alliance with his sister in mind, I allowed Algernon to prevail and, confining myself to only the most muted of imprecations, I allowed him to lead me from the room.

Outside in St. James's Street, we turned to the question of which House to visit. I suggested Theresa Berkley's establishment near Portland Place and Algernon complimented me on my taste. I admitted that I had never actually visited the house, but had heard excellent reports of it.

"I am sure you have," said Algernon. "It was a place of most particular pleasure. Unfortunately, it has been closed up these two years past, and Mrs Berkley is disappeared to parts unknown. She and her girls are a great loss to our society. There were no better exponents of the art of flagellation in all of London."

My disappointment must have been plain to see. Algernon, however, reached out a hand and gripped my shoulder to comfort me.

"Be not too down-hearted, Brother-in-Law," he told me. "I can recommend another House, in Covent Garden, which is almost as good. It is run by a Mrs Gosling, who has the finest stable of depraved woman-flesh in all England at the moment. And they, too, are partial to the sting of rattan and birch. Would you care to try her wares?"

I said I would, so we hailed a passing hackney and made our way across town to Covent Garden.

*

I had visited the Garden before, but had forgotten the garish flicker of torches and braziers, the whispering shadows, and the clandestine bustle of rakes, street girls and mollies slipping from alley to alley – from door to curtained door. After we alighted from the carriage, Algernon and I strolled through the throng. Despite the busyness of the scene, there was a curious hush about the place, broken only occasionally by the cry of a drunk or the oath of a dissatisfied whore. We walked along the middle of the street: there were footpads here, too, in plenty, lying in wait for the weak, the inebriate and the unwary.

At length, Algernon paused before an entrance and rapped upon it. There was a moment's delay, then a grill slid aside and, almost instantly, the door swung open to admit us. Inside, all was velvet and polished brass, with swags of hangings everywhere and thick red carpet underfoot. The Madam hurried to meet us. She greeted Algernon as a familiar friend.

He took her hand and made an extravagant bow, then bent to kiss her fat, bejewelled fingers. She was a hideous old thing, at least fifty years of age. Her face was powdered white and her lips and cheeks were rouged.

"This," said Algernon to me, "is the celebrated Mrs Gosling, better known as Mother Goose. And this," he said, turning to the bawd, "is Lord Jonathan Carey of Mountjoy – a visitor you would do well to cherish, Ma'am, since his custom may be long-lasting if he is treated well tonight."

The old wreck simpered and curtsied, then led us into a salon where we called for tankards of iced champagne. These arrived with alacrity, closely followed by a parade of girls, all in déshabillé, who struck poses and tittered while we inspected them. We took our time, sitting together and comparing the merits of one with another. At length, however, we made our choices.

We took a slight girl of perhaps one-and-twenty, with mousey hair, a sharp nose, and a wicked glint in her eye, and a taller, fair-haired piece (of the colouring the French call blonde), who may have been a year or two older than her companion. This blonde one had firm, strong hams. I was already imagining the satisfying smack of leather across her inviting rump. There were younger pieces there as well, but Mother Goose had advised us that, for the particular entertainment we sought, the more experienced women would be the most suitable. We deferred to her expertise.

Once the others had gone – led out by the bawd – we immediately began our business. We had the two women remove the remaining wisps of their finery and, once they were naked, had them perform acts of Sapphic lust for our delectation. This they did with enthusiasm. I have often wondered if whores come to prefer their own sex in time – it is said that women know the secret desires of female flesh much more intimately than do men – and these two clearly understood how best to please one another. By now, I confess, the day's drinking was beginning to have an effect on me, and my memory of that latter part of the evening has an episodic quality – like the jumpy, flickering scenes one sees in a magic lantern. But I clearly remember the sight of the blonde piece lying flat upon the floor with her face buried between the Mouse's thighs. The mousey girl squirmed and moaned and, when she finally surfaced from her labours, Blonde had a shine of moisture gleaming about her mouth.

We made them change places, of course, so the Mouse could return the compliment to the blonde one's cunt. Then, when Blonde had reached her crisis, we called for the implements. Mouse brought them with a grin while Blonde stood watching in apparent trepidation.

We looked at what Mouse had delivered to us while they dragged the flogging horse out. There was a bundle of whippy birch twigs – which instantly sparked memories of the punishments to which I had been subjected at school –, a light cat and a tawse, a riding crop and a heavy length of rattan. I hefted the latter in my hand, feeling its weight and knowing I would relish it the most when I came to use it. But I was curious to see the effects of the other implements as well, as we plied them on the girls' pleasing posteriors. Algernon suggested we begin with the birch, and I, concurring, said that the women should first deal with each other before us, to begin our sport. At this the Mouse's face lit up with evident delight, but her companion gave her a doubtful glance from beneath her brows. Taking that as a cue, I had Blonde bend across the horse with her legs well-splayed and her fine buttocks parted. Then I made Mouse kneel behind her and lick, slow and deliberate, up the full length of Blonde's crack and down again.

That done, I handed Mouse the birch. "Lay on with a will," I told her. "Remember, the kinder you are to your sister, the harder it will go for you."

I think, however, that my instruction was unnecessary. The Mouse stood back, positioned the birch for a moment to measure the distance and swing, then brought it down harshly across the other woman's rump. It made a dramatic swish in the air, then a resounding crash as the whippy twigs collided with pink flesh. Wheals pricked out in tiny blisters instantly. My member sprang to life in immediate response.

The Mouse was clearly an expert at her task and took obvious pleasure in performing it. Blonde, in contrast, was an increasingly unwilling victim – and her cries of pain seemed to urge the other on to greater acts of cruelty as the blows rained down. Blonde was soon flinching before every fresh attack. I wondered, however, if her protests were a little over-vehement – if they were contrived for our entertainment, in fact. I resolved to try her metal more sternly when it came to my turn to lay on.

Mouse continued to birch her friend for perhaps five minutes; then we had them change places and Blonde beat Mouse. I have to say that Blonde took considerable pleasure in exacting her revenge. Mouse was more stoical, however, and received her beating with hardly a blink. At length, we tired of this, and Algernon took Blonde's place, to try the cat.

The flogging horse was a long piece of apparatus, so I was able to bend Blonde over it from the opposite side to the Mouse. Their faces were thus side by side, with their heads close together, but with their arses projecting in opposing directions – the Mouse's towards Algernon; the Blonde's to me. The pleasure of the moment would therefore be enhanced by the fact that each girl would experience her companion's pain in sympathy – flushed cheek by rosy cheek – before she received her own blow.

So Algernon and I took turns at beating them – first he with the cat on Mouse; then I with the tawse on Blonde. We took them turn about, matched blow for stinging blow, and built a pleasing rhythm. It was indeed a pleasure to beat the blonde. Her plump arse wriggled after every blow I struck. She panted, gasped and moaned; she begged for quarter. I gave her none. After some time, however, Algernon desired to try her too, so we switched places. I then realised the full beauty of our arrangement. Though I now beat the Mouse upon her somewhat narrower buttocks, I could see Blonde's face contort as Algernon lashed at her. She bit her lip before each sharp assault, then howled as the tails of the cat bit into her.

We continued like this for some time. (I was particularly impressed by the way the sweat broke out on Blonde's forehead each time she was struck with the cat.) At length, however, I desired to try the rattan. I therefore picked it up and positioned myself behind Blonde, Algernon obligingly placing himself at the Mouse's hind-quarters, with the riding crop in his hand. The first time I brought the cane down on Blonde's arse was an absolute delight – a hard, sweet blow across her lovely buttocks. I watched the pain travel through her – saw her shake and shudder with it. And Mouse, who had hitherto been nonchalant, widened her eyes in alarm. We were coming to the essence of the matter, I fancied. We were about to try both girls to the quick. I daresay we were merciless. I do not know how long it was that we beat them but, by the end, their gasps had given way to sobs. If the blonde had been feigning before, she was not doing so now. Her breasts and shoulders shook as the blows rained down upon her. Her face was red; her eyes leaked crystal tears.

And then, of course, we fucked them. We had them just where they were, both draped across the flogging horse. I fucked Blonde; Algernon had the Mouse. After I had spent some time labouring in her cunt, I switched my attention to Blonde's anus and Algernon, noticing the change, followed suit with his own paramour. So we both ended rapturously, inside their respective arses, buggering them to glory. It was the high point of the evening; the summit of our achievements.

At that, both spent, Algernon and I retired to our chairs and called for more champagne. I glanced across at my friend and saw he had a certain glow about him – a sleek aura of satisfaction that I imagined hung about me as well. The women, however, were surprisingly subdued. They huddled in a corner, clinging to one another, trembling and moaning softly. We laughed and offered them champagne, but they declined. They had clearly lost their appetite for sport. When Mother Goose brought our fresh tankards to us, we drew her attention to her employees' lack of vim. She tut-tutted and apologised, then hustled the sorry creatures out. She returned a little later, though, with two fresh girls, and – once we had refreshed ourselves and marshalled our strength a little – we began to play again. We went on until daybreak – then, the place showing signs of closing, we decided with reluctance that we should leave.

*

We found a hackney outside and, my house being the closer, directed the driver to take us there. Although dawn had now broken, I was loath to call an end to our adventure, so I invited Algernon in for a snifter of brandy before we parted. He willingly agreed, so we sat in my parlour and the butler brought us cognac. And then, though I cannot identify the exact moment that it happened, we must both have fallen asleep beside the fire.

I knew no more until, at some moment in late morning, a footman woke me, saying a gentleman had arrived who wished to see me on urgent and important business. Had I been more alert, I would have desired the fellow to wait in the vestibule until I was ready to receive him but, still mazed with drink and sleepy as I was, I told my man to bring him in. He led the visitor in a few moments later and I rose to meet him. Algernon, who was still sprawled opposite me in his armchair, stirred at that point and opened an enquiring eye.

The visitor held himself stiffly, I noticed, and seemed somewhat ill-at-ease. He was a man of perhaps thirty and clearly, from his dress, a gentleman. He did not offer to shake hands. I asked him his business and he cleared his throat a little nervously.

"I am come on Lord Frobisher's behalf," he said. "He considers himself to have been insulted at your meeting at White's Club last night, and therefore challenges you to a duel."

I took a step back in astonishment. Algernon was instantly at my shoulder.

"In matters like this, you need a Second, Jonathan," he murmured. "I would be honoured if you would accept my services."

Still amazed, I nodded my consent, and Algernon steered me to the window. "Wait here for a moment, then," he told me, "and I will conclude the necessary arrangements with this gentleman."

I did as he bid me and stood looking out into the street as they held a muttered consultation behind me. It did not take very long. All too soon, the visitor had departed, and Algernon was standing beside me again.

"I think everything has been decided satisfactorily," he told me with a smile. "You and Lord Frobisher will meet tomorrow on the heath at Hampstead – at dawn, naturally."

I swallowed nervously.

"And, oh," added Algernon, "the weapons will be pistols. I thought that would be best. If you do not happen to have any with you, I can lend you a pair."

But I hardly heard him. I felt the blood drain from my face and the air turned glassy. I was suddenly woozy; the room was spinning round. And then, I believe, though I have no clear recollection of it, I fell down upon the carpet in a swoon.

***