Anna's Affliction

Anna's Affliction,  part 2                               by Abe

       I assume you have read about me, and you know how I am afflicted with a large “willie” and how Aunt Edith and Uncle Arthur punished me by hurting it.  When Mr. Harriman offered to take me away from them and from Brighton, I had been deprived of my usual pleasures by having my willie scalded and sucked into a glass vial which kept me from rubbing it or pressing on it, thereby preventing the dreamy “fits” of pleasure which I used to induce simply by squeezing my thighs together.  I would take any chance to get away from  Edith and her friend, Sarah, and Wilbur, who seemed to enjoy torturing me, hurting my willie to prevent my sinful pleasure.  And Wilbur tried to hurt my boobies, too.  I knew it was a risk to go with a stranger, but I had to get away.

       I accompanied Mr. Harriman to his hotel, where he recovered his portmanteau and sample case.  He said he was a traveler, selling Belgian lace.  We went to the terminus of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway.  There was a ladies' room, which I asked to use.  He gave me a penny for the attendant and said he would meet me there, after he had purchased tickets.

       I was not familiar with the new flush toilets.  The attendant led me to a little stall which contained a large ceramic bowl, decorated with flowers and leaves.  She wiped the rim with a damp cloth, and I gave her the penny as she left and closed the door.  I am used to squatting over a chamber pot, but the public toilet was something else.  I surmised that one was supposed to sit on it, but, with my skirts and petticoats, it would not be easy.  Finally I managed to pull up my skirts in front and to straddle the affair, facing the wall.  After relieving myself, I contrived to reach down and take hold of the glass vial.  Several times I banged it against the edge of the bowl until, at last, it broke with a pop and the broken glass fell into the bowl.  My willie was free!  I restored my clothing to its proper place and exited the stall.  The attendant looked annoyed as she entered and pulled a chain, causing the bowl to empty and refill with clean water.  As they had not yet adopted the S-bend trap, there was a whiff of poisonous sewer gas.

       Mr. Harriman was waiting for me, and he led me to the front of a train.  The locomotive was splendid in yellow ocher  livery, and the first class carriages were gleaming varnished teak, with luxurious seats upholstered in light blue plush, not like the hard wooden benches of third class.   We stepped into an open compartment, and Mr. Harriman stowed his baggage.  We sat opposite each other on the side away from the platform.  He said, “Well, we have an opportunity to become better acquainted.  You must...”  He went quiet as a middle aged gentleman, his portly wife, and their little girl entered the compartment and sat beside us.

       I could not help myself.  I pressed my thighs together and found my willie was as responsive as ever.  Very soon I was in the dreamy state on my way to a paroxysm of pleasure, and I hardly noticed when the gentleman covered his daughter's eyes and led his family from the compartment.  Mr. Harriman stood up, closed the compartment door, and said, smiling, “How clever you are, Anna, to drive them away by faking...  by doing what you did.”

       After a few seconds to catch my breath and return to normal, I replied, “Fake?  What do you mean?”

       “Have you known many men, Anna?  You must be experienced with, uh, intimate relations,” he said.

       “No, I have never been intimate with a man, Mr. Harriman.” I replied, truthfully I thought, since Uncle Arthur didn't count.

       “You are a virgin?” he said, his voice rising as if he could not believe it.

       “Yes,” I said.

       “How old are you?”

       “Very near to seventeen, Mr. Harriman,” I replied.

       “You must tell me all about yourself,” he insisted.  “Tell me the story of your life.”

       So I told him.  I told him I had been raised in the village of Nettlebed, west of London, that my father was the miller.  My mother died, so I left school and kept house for my father.  He was concerned that I should read widely, and he arranged for Madame Foch, the wife of the baker, to tutor me in French and piano.  I did not miss the formal schooling.  Then my father died, quite suddenly, which is why I wear black.  The solicitors who were executors of his estate arranged for me to live with my Aunt Emily and Uncle Arthur.  They said that money for my keep would be sent from a trust fund my father had arranged, having in mind a dowry for when I married.

       He seemed very interested.  “Do you know how much is in this trust fund?”

       “No,” I replied, quite truthfully.

       “Do you know the names of the solicitors?”

       “Wilkes and Wilkes,” I replied.  “They have offices somewhere near the Inns of Court.”  Our conversation went on for the duration of the train ride to London, though Mr. Harriman did not tell me very much about himself.

       Upon our arrival in London, we took a cab to the East End, east of the Tower of London,  famous for its squalor and lawlessness.  We stopped at a public house, The Broken Lance, and entered the bar, which  contained a throng of rough men; sailors, longshoremen, carters, coopers and who knows what.  We went through to the saloon bar, where there were a few men and three young women.  I had never met a prostitute, but I knew they must be whores, judging from their dress, or undress.  One seemed to be wearing only a dressing robe, with nothing on underneath!  It seemed my earlier apprehension that Mr. Harriman had no interest in marrying me but intended to sell me into prostitution was likely well founded, for surely he had delivered me to a brothel.

       We went further, back to the kitchen and scullery.  There, a woman in a scarlet dress greeted us.  “Mother,” said Mr. Harriman, “this is Anna.  I want you to feed her and take care of her and keep her until I return.  She is a virgin.  Do not let any man touch her.  I won't be long.”  Then he left me with the woman.

       “Well,  Anna, sit you down.  I'll have Pansy bring you some food and prepare a bath for you while you eat.”  Pansy, it turned out, was only eleven, but she was clearly with child, even though she was not yet old enough to have any boobs at all.  She was barefoot and wore only a man's shirt which reached to her knees.

       I ate a bowl of oatmeal in the kitchen, while I explained to Mrs. Harriman how her son had rescued me from a frightful existence in Brighton.  Then I went into the scullery where Pansy helped me to undress, and I bathed in a big tin tub which Pansy had filled with water warm from the range.  When I supposed I was clean,  Pansy said that Mrs. H. required one more thing.   To my great embarrassment, Pansy lathered the curly hairs of my belly and shaved them with a wicked razor, plucking a few with tweezers.  This seemed to me very strange, but Pansy explained that one of her jobs was to shave all the girls regularly for hygienic reasons.  Surely, I didn't want crab lice.  Men, she said, like to see what they are buying, and I would look younger if I had no hair down there.

       I said that I was not for sale, but Pansy just laughed and shook her head and asked me if this place was not a whorehouse.  I asked Pansy for my clothes, but all she would give me was a dirty robe of the sort the whore wore.  Then she went to Mrs. H. and whispered something.

       “No, half man?” exclaimed Mrs. H.  “It can't be.”  She snatched at my robe, tearing it open and exposing me to everyone in the kitchen.    “It's true.  She has a stud like a man.”  Then, to me, she said, “Does it work?”

       “I don't know what you mean,” I answered, embarrassed to be so exposed and discussed among strangers.

       “Pansy, suck it as you would a man,” ordered the woman in scarlet.  I protested, but two of the kitchen maids held me while Pansy went down on her knees and took my willie into her mouth.  I tried to resist, but in seconds the thrills were coursing through me, and soon I lost track of time.  Great heaving waves coursed through my belly, my knees buckled, and I nearly lost consciousness, transported by ecstasy.  Then I found myself sitting on a chair, with the kitchen help all agog, and Pansy was told to take me up to Master Robert's room.

       On my way upstairs, however, there was a great commotion in the saloon bar.  Pansy and I  detoured to peek in and see what was happening.  A large man held one of the whores by the wrist and shouted that she had picked his pocket, and he wanted the police.  Harry, the bartender,  told him to calm down.  The  police would not come, and if they did, no one wanted them on the premises.  The man twisted the whore's wrist until she dropped a few coins on the floor.  “There, there,” said Harry, “pick up you money, and there's no harm done.”

       “She's a thief!  I want justice,” shouted the man.

       “Very well,” said Harry, “how about a little summary justice.  I've a cane.  You can get your satisfaction by taking it out of her hide.”

       Pansy and I watched, fascinated, as Harry stripped the whore and held her bent over a bar stool while the man vented his anger by caning her until her bottom bled, and she surely would be unable to work on her back for some time.   Pansy and I were not the only ones fascinated.  Men from the bar swarmed into the room at the sound of the unfortunate woman's screams, and the kitchen staff watched, too.  I never forgot that scene.

       I was asleep on his bed when Mr. Harriman returned.  “I went to see the solicitors,” he said, “but I was too late.  A clerk told me to come back tomorrow.”  He removed the robe and examined me as I stood there naked.   “It's true.  You clitoris is huge.”

       “Is that what it is called?” I said.

       “Yes, but you may call it what you will.”

       “I have always called it my willie.”

       He put me into bed and said, “I must touch it.”  He did, and the results were as usual.  I slept very soundly.

       The next day, he went again to the solicitors and he returned excited.  He and his mother helped me to dress; it's impossible to lace oneself into corsets and to button the back of a dress by oneself.  Then we took a cab to the office of the solicitors.  The elder Mr. Wilkes wanted to speak to me alone.  “Anna,” he said, “do you really want to marry this man?”  I explained that I had no other suitors, and I would do anything to avoid returning to Brighton.  “Well,” he explained, if you must marry him you shall, but I am very concerned about your welfare.”  Then, to the two of us, he explained that I would have an income of more than 140 pounds a year, interest on the capital held in trust, which capital I could not touch until I was 21, more than four years away.  The sale of the mill had added substantially to the fund.  The payments to my aunt and uncle would, of course, be stopped, as Robert would be my husband and entitled to all my possessions.  However, he required from Robert a promise to provide me with a house and maid, somewhere west of The City or even in the country, and the payments would not commence until Robert produced a marriage certificate.  Mr. Harriman and I took the overnight train to Scotland and were married before 10 AM the next day.

       Even though we were married, on paper, it was never consummated.  Sometimes, to cheer me up, Robert would  rub or even suck my willie, which invariably pleased me,  but I remained, technically, a virgin.  I don't know why.  Perhaps he was diseased, or he had a mistress, or he might even have preferred boys, but the fact was that he never penetrated me and, as I later learned, I might obtain an annulment if I wished on grounds of non-consummation,  with my intact maidenhead as evidence.

       We leased a newly built terraced house in the western suburbs, Shepherd's Bush.  It was one of several identical houses, each sharing a common wall with its neighbor, each with a parlor, a dining room, and a kitchen and scullery on the ground floor, with bedrooms and a WC on the first floor.  The lease called for a rent of  25 pounds per annum.   Uniformity, conformity, was the rule.  Each house but mine had a young couple, with a husband who worked in town and a wife whose function was to bear his children and to make sure that, when he came home in the evening, he was well fed and content.  It was expected that the parlor would be lavishly decorated at a cost of at least a year's income, saved up before the marriage, including, probably, a piano, Persian rugs or copies of them, a mantel clock under glass, silver candlesticks, porcelain figurines, brocaded drapes, and all the other useless ornaments which established one as equally middle class as one's neighbors.  If a man increased his income, or his family grew much larger, he was expected to move to a finer house, though it might not be more than a quarter mile away.  I, of course, did not fit in.  My parlor was bare, but for a table and chairs and inexpensive lamps.  I had no intention of  competing with the other wives.  My husband did not work in London, and he did not come home each night, or even each week, expecting a fine meal and the pleasures of domesticity.  I did not have children, or even one on the way, so I had little in common, nothing to talk about, with the young mothers.  Rather, they saw me as a threat, a pretty young woman who was practically single, who might well seduce their husbands.

       I had a maid, Sarah, who was no older than I.  I helped with the laundry on Mondays; it takes two to do it right.  I did most of the cooking, though not the washing up.  Sarah's job was to help me dress and undress and to keep the place clean, which was not greatly difficult as we were upwind of the worst of the city soot.   When Robert came home we waited on him hand and foot, but he always slept in his room, and I in mine.  Without productive work to do, I devoted myself to self-improvement, reading extensively, both fiction and non-fiction,  often French novels or medical texts which booksellers and librarians were reluctant to let me have, as they dealt with subjects unsuitable for a young woman.

       I soon learned that my husband was both a traveling salesman and what was called a procurer, a recruiter of prostitutes.   England had  surplus of women, about ten for every nine males, as so many men went to sea or emmigrated to the colonies.  Employment for an unmarried female was very limited.  She might stay home and ultimately care for her aging parents.  If she was very lucky, she might find as position as a nanny or governess or possibly as a shop girl in a millinery shop or such, but most shopkeepers preferred males.  Otherwise, she was a domestic servant, practically a slave, or she was a prostitute.  The Society for the Suppression of Vice reported that, in London, one in fourteen women was a prostitute.  There was an oversupply of whores, so being a procurer tended to be a part-time job.  Never the less, as Mr. Harriman went from town to town with his samples of lace, he came in contact with many young women, potential customers or potential  prostitutes.  I have no doubt that, had he not learned of my dowry, he might have turned me over to his mother to service the scum of the East End.

       The weather grew colder and gloomier.  My pubic hair grew back.  Robert told me that Pansy's baby was stillborn.  Pansy was so afraid of  becoming pregnant again that she begged him to let her serve us.  So then I had two maids.  Sarah and Pansy were like sisters and shared a bed.  I've no doubt that  Pansy corrupted Sarah's morals.

       A proper wife does not concern herself with her husband's job.  Many of my neighbors had no idea of what their husband's did for a living, and such things were never discussed in the home, which was a refuge from the cares of the world.  With my income, had he not loved his work, my husband might not have spent so much time seducing young women, for it cannot have paid well, given the number of women who were already in the trade, as they say.  Still, I did discuss it with Mr. Harriman.

       “Is it true, Robert,” I said, “that there are gentlemen who prefer boys and will pay well for them?”

       “Anna!” he said, “where did you learn of that?”

       “I read a lot,” I said.  “And is it true that men will pay a great deal to deflower a virgin?”

       “I have heard that is so,” he said.

       Remembering the incident of the pickpocket in the saloon bar, I said, “And are not a great many men fascinated with violence, particularly  violence toward women?  Do you not think that many would pay more to see a woman caned than to see a prize fight between men?”

       Robert thought for a moment.  “Yes, I should  think that might be so.  Women, too, might pay.  And some might pay to see a woman abuse a man.  What are you driving at,  my innocent wife?”

       I gathered my courage to explain what I had been thinking about.  “The Broken Lance can hardly be a real money maker.  Perhaps the beer and gin sales are profitable, but with so many whores on the streets, surely your mother can hardly afford to feed the girls she has.  When, in your travels, you run across a pretty girl, such as myself, and you induce her to put herself in your hands, selling her to a brothel can hardly pay your expenses.  Am I right?”

       “I did not know that you knew so much about me.  Yes, you are correct.  Procuring prostitutes is more of a hobby than a trade,” he replied.

       “Suppose,” I said, “that we could make it profitable.”

       “We?  What do you have in mind?”

       “Suppose,” I said, “that we operated an establishment for select  gentlemen, or ladies, of means, who would pay handsomely for entertainment such as they would never expect at a place like The  Broken Lance.  I imagine a private club where a gentleman or gentlewoman could visit and  view or partake in activities of,  ah, an unconventional sort.  I could run the business.  You could provide the 'live stock'.  The problem is finding the clients to become members.”

       Robert seemed to take a while to ingest the idea.  “You mean,” he said, “like the clubs on Regent Street where gentlemen dine and play at cards or whatever they do?  We could call it Harriman House.”

       “I don't think we could compete with the established, fashionable, respectable clubs.  I was thinking of something more novel, with a name that would attract the sort we want.  I thought, perhaps, The Caligula Club, 'for those interested in the classical Greek and Roman arts', a euphemism for pagan orgies.  We have no friends in the moneyed classes, do we?  We would have to advertise discreetly, until word of mouth brings in more members.”

       “Do you really think this scheme is possible?” he said, shifting himself nervously.

       “Yes, I think it is.  As I said,  I could run the business, and you  could find the participants.  We can save enough from my income to lease premises.  May I have your permission to investigate some more?  Of course, I can  do nothing without your approval.”

       “Anna,” he said, “I thank God for the day you said you would come away with me.  Yes, see what you can do.”

       While my husband was traveling,  I found  what I thought would be a suitable location, in Soho.  Soho is located not far from the fashionable shops and quite close to theaters.  For a century or more  the area was home to immigrants, artists, and other non-conformists, but lately the respectable people were moving out.  I found a suitable building.  The ground floor was occupied by Chez Jacques, a restaurant with French cuisine, much favored by cultured gentlemen of the sort I hoped would become members of the club.  Jacques, who owned the building, was a refugee from the revolutions of 1848 who  had found refuge in England, but he retained his French tolerance for worldly vices.  The floors above the restaurant were flats, apartments in the continental style, which shared a common stairway.  Jacques had the building modernized, with running water, flush toilets, and gas for lights and hot water geysers.  The apartments were still vacant and available for rent.  I explained to Jacques what I planned to do,  pointing out that our members would likely eat at the restaurant or order food sent up, which would be good for his business.  I introduced Robert to Jacques, and a rental arrangement was agreed upon.

       There followed a flurry of activity by Sarah and me, cleaning, decorating, selecting furniture.  The vestibule was accessible from the street or from the restaurant, but there was a door at the foot of the stairs, so I could control access to the upper floors.  The inner door soon bore a brass plate, The Caligula Club.  There was also a second stairway, the servant's stairs, in the back, with an  exit to an alley.  Sarah and I moved into the third floor, leaving our suburban house vacant for a while.  The second floor would be the club rooms while the first floor, over the restaurant, would initially remain vacant, so that patrons of Chez Jacques would not hear what went on upstairs.

       The most difficult part was getting started in business, finding the first few members and arranging entertainment to suit.  I had printed business cards:  The Caligula Club, a private club for members only, located above Chez Jacques, with the address and a note that members can bring male or female guests.  I began by approaching diners in the restaurant – a pretty young woman is seldom rebuffed – and handing them a card.  The majority declined to show interest, but some would ask questions.  By the end of a week I had a prospective member, whom I interviewed in the vestibule.

       “Is it a residential club?” he asked.  Not yet, there is room to expand in the future, if members want their own room.  “Well, then, what reason is there to join?”  There will be entertainment, which can be arranged on appointment to suit the member's tastes.  “What sort of entertainment?”

       “You sound like an educated man,” I replied.  “You would be acquainted with classical Greek and Roman culture and you might imagine the sort of entertainment.  The name, after all, suggests the theme.  You must have heard of Caligula, one of the most depraved of Roman emperors.”

       “You  are referring to some sort of pagan orgies?” he replied.

       “Have you heard of the 18th century Hellfire Club?  Sir Francis Dashwood, Lord Sandwich, John Wilkes, Benjamin Franklin?  We will be like that, except the members and their female companions will not have to journey to Medmenham or West Wycomb.  Meetings,” I explained,  “will be by prior arrangement.  Members are required to wear masks.  You may bring a companion or guest.  If not, a companion can be provided. Generally, other members may observe what takes place, but the utmost discretion is required; thus the masks.  You may provide your own mask, but I have arranged a supply of  masks, from simple cloth coverings to garish papier mache' masks suitable for Carnivale in some southern locale.”

       “How then will you know who I am?”  he asked.

       “I do not want to know who you are.  I will give you a medallion with a membership number on it, which you can show to gain admission.  Since I will not know your name or address, I cannot send you a bill.  Therefore, you will deposit an amount, perhaps ten pounds, on account, and I will deduct from your account as needed.  Each time you visit will cost a guinea, plus whatever additional expenses we may incur to satisfy your particular desires.  Do you have a particular desire?”

       He thought a moment, then asked, “You can satisfy any desire?”

       I smiled and said, “As long as it does not involve blood, broken bones, or other lasting harm, most likely we can supply whatever you might want.  Do you have a specific interest?”

       He hesitated again and then said, “Can you supply a virgin?  Could I rape a virgin?”

       Again I smiled and said, “A virgin may be costly to obtain, but a virgin you shall have.”

       “And could I cane her, too?”

       “We aim to please.  Would you like to buy a medallion?”  I handed him a disc, one of several I had obtained, with a roman figure on one side and consecutive numbers on the other side.  His was 101.  After taking his money, I asked, “When would you like to meet the virgin?”

       “Saturday, about 7 PM?”

       “We will expect you.”

       I placed an order with Robert for a suitable girl.  On Saturday he returned home, to the club, empty handed.  “Robert,” I said, “I promised to fulfill his needs, and though I am a virgin, I do not propose that I should fornicate with members.   I have the cane but not the bottom.  Find me a virgin!”

       Robert thought for a moment and the called out, “Sarah!”    Sarah came running.  “Sarah, are you a virgin?”

       Sarah blushed and seemed flustered: “Yes, Master Robert.”

       “There you are,” he said.  He walked out of the room.

       “Sarah,” I said, “You know that I have never disciplined you, never spanked you.  Have  you ever been punished, with a cane or strap or something?”

       “Yes, Mistress, many times.  I was a naughty girl in school and got the slipper many times.  My father, he used a strap on my bottom.  Then, when I went into service, my first employer,  Mrs. Gulliver, she used to punish me with a cane and later a paddle, until she got fed up and let me go, which is why I work for you so cheap.  I have no reference.”

       “Suppose I offered you a pound to agree to be caned.  Would you accept that?”

       “Oh, yes, Mistress,” she answered enthusiastically.  “That's almost two month's wages.  Gosh, you can cane me for a pound any time.”

       “On the bare?  Maybe entirely naked?” I asked.

       “Of course, Mistress.   I'm told that's how it's done in some of the best houses.”

       “And if it was a man caning you?”

       “That would be alright, I think.  My father was a man, and he used to whip my bare bottom.” she replied.

       “And Master Robert and I could look on, just to see that you are not seriously hurt,” I added.

       “That would be alright, I think.  It would make me feel safer,” she said.

       “And suppose, after you were caned on the bottom, a man put his thing inside you?”

       She visibly drew back, a frightened expression on her face.  “You mean the sin of fornication, Mistress?”

       “Yes, that is it exactly.  You would lose your virginity.”

       “No, I don't think I could agree to that, Mistress,” she said with a tremor in her voice.

       “Suppose, Sarah,” I said, “I give you three month's wages, and a new dress, and three days off to spend the money.  Would that induce you to put up with perhaps an hour of inconvenience?  Your clothes come off.  You are caned on the bottom, and then he sticks something into you.  No harm done.   God will forgive you.”

       Sarah bit her lip for half a minute before answering, “Yes, Mistress, I'll do that for three month's wages, and the rest.”  I felt a profound relief.  Tonight's entertainment had to go well; our whole future depended on  it.  We had to establish our bona fides, to please our first member, or there might never be more members.

       That night, Number 101 arrived early, about dusk, which is early afternoon in December.  He had brought his own mask and a male guest, also masked.  They seemed to be in no hurry, as Robert and I tried to make them comfortable in a room which passed for our parlor.  They sent down to Jacques for two plates of food and a bottle of his best Madeira.   Sarah waited off-stage, fidgeting and pulling on her hair.  She was barefoot, dressed in a short dress more appropriate for a twelve year old, with nothing on underneath.

       Then came the moment of truth.  We introduced Sarah to the two men.  “Sarah, you have been a bad girl, a depraved sinner!  You must be punished,” announced Number 101.  “I have a cane.  Do you know what you must do?'  Sarah hesitated, uncertain.  “Take off your dress,” he ordered.  Sarah complied, appearing to be embarrassed, though she later told me she wasn't.   Our first member pushed her over the arm of an upholstered chair, and the guest held her arms, so her bottom was turned upwards.  “Count the strokes!” 

       The cane swished through the air and audibly smacked her fleshy buttocks.   “Ow!” she cried, “One.”  The man seemed satisfied with his work and took a moment to run his hand over the welt he had left.  He continued his work, as Sarah screamed and called out the numbers.   Between strokes, he would loosen his clothing or slide his hand over her, even fingering her virginal cleft, pulling gently on the curly hairs.  He stopped when she called out twenty.

       His erect prong was exposed and ready.  As the other man held Sarah, our member stood behind her.  He positioned the tip of his shaft between the lower lips of his victim and slid it fore and aft a few times.   It seemed to me that she was naturally lubricated at that point, but I had some butter, just in case.  He positioned his tool toward the back of her cleft and lunged forward, driving into her cunt.  She cried out, and there was blood, proof of her former virginity.  The man was  exaltant, and he thrust rapidly half a dozen strokes until he came with a grunt, depositing his seed deep inside her.  She responded with a deep sigh.

       The guest, who until then had simply held Sarah and watched, now stood back and brought forth his erect organ.  He traded places  with Sarah's ravisher and thrust his own sword into her now wet-with- semen sheath.  He was made of sterner stuff, and he rammed into her, his belly squashing her  bruised bottom, continuing as if he would never tire.  Sarah grunted and sighed as he ravaged her girlish cunt, and, in time, she began to pant like a dog.  “Oh, God!” she cried.  “Oh, don't stop.  Oh, Gaaahhh!”  Her assailant evidently liked that, and he ejaculated even as her own juices splashed his balls.

       Before the two men left, the guest had become our second member, with medallion 102.  Sarah washed and dressed, and he, 102, asked to see her before he left.  Wordlessly, he pressed a gold sovereign  into her hand, more money than she had seen in her life.  He took with him a number of our business cards.  Over the course of the next week,  two more men and a woman I had approached in the restaurant applied for membership.  Word of mouth was working. 

       The woman, 104, was a widow past childbearing age who  wanted a Wednesday visit.  Sarah and Pansy disrobed her and bathed her, and then she lay down, face down,  on a large table.  Sarah and Pansy rubbed scented oil into her body, from toes to neck.  Then she rolled over,  and they rubbed her front.  After a while, Sarah concentrated on  oiling and rubbing  104's breasts, while Pansy got down between the woman's parted thighs and applied her tongue where it would do the most good.  “Oh, yes,” she sighed, and then, more loudly, “Yes, squeeze my breasts. Hurt me.”  She arched her back, pushing her cunt against Pansy's face, and howled for several seconds, until she relaxed and her bum slapped against the table.  She said the entertainment was well worth a guinea, and made an appointment for the next week.

       The gentleman with medallion 103 wanted a young man.  Robert found an older boy who was used to servicing sailors and would do anything for a few shillings.  Sarah and Pansy cleaned him up, but we didn't have clean clothes for him, so when 103 arrived we presented the boy in a loincloth, like an American Indian.  The two demanded privacy for an hour or so and left together.  We never saw either of them again, though 103's account remains open.

       Number 105 had a specific request which I wasn't sure I could accommodate, so he agreed to give me some time and he would check back with me.  My more immediate concern was finding virgins for 101.   Friday night, Robert showed up with a sack over his shoulder, which he left  on the floor before he left again.  The sack contained a slender girl who was bound and gagged.  We undressed her and bathed her and fed her.  She said her name was Ruby.   She seemed happy to be warm and well fed and readily shared a bed with Pansy.  In the morning, warmly dressed, she wolfed down her breakfast.

       “Pansy,” I asked, “have you told Ruby why she is here?”

       “No, Mistress,” she said.  “I wouldn't do a thing like that without your permission.”

       “Sarah, you have been there before.  Would you please tell Ruby what we expect of her?”  Sarah explained about how Ruby would be caned and fucked.

       Ruby had only one question: “And when I've been fucked, you are not going to send me away, into the cold, are you?”

       I couldn't bring myself to tell her that's what we had planned.  Sometimes emotion or morality overcomes reason.  “No,” I replied, “you can stay here as long as you cooperate, do what we tell you to do.”

       I examined Ruby, looking for proof of her virginity.  I didn't find  it, but it was too late to find another virgin.  “Ruby,” I said, “I'm going to sew up your cunt a bit, make it tighter.”

       “No!  That will hurt,” she blurted out.

       “Are you going to cooperate or are you going to leave?  I believe it has started to snow.”

       Pansy intervened, explaining that she wanted her cunt sewed up, so she would never again get pregnant, and proposing that I should sew her up to prove to Ruby it wouldn't hurt too much.  I did, using a curved needle and silken thread, joining her inner lips, leaving only a small opening for her monthly flow.  I know it hurt, but Pansy did not show it, and Ruby consented.  For Ruby, I used only a few tiny stitches, with the object that when 101 fucked her the stitches would tear out and there would be bloody “proof” of her virginity.

       That night, 101 and 102 repeated their actions of the previous Saturday.  Ruby howled and blubbered as her arse was caned, unable to count the strokes.  When it was time to fuck her, 101 was well satisfied, noting how tight she was and how she had bled.  102 then took his turn, and he worked hard with cock and fingers to finally bring her to her climax.  Only then did he “fire for effect”, as the artillerymen say, and, I think, she had another orgasm as he ejaculated   inside her.  And he slipped her a sovereign.  They made an appointment for next Saturday, with a request for some improvements.

       As I showed the gentlemen out, I discovered in the vestibule a miserable shivering woman who had sought refuge from the cold and snow.  She was perhaps twice my age, dressed in what once were respectable clothes but which were now ragged and dirty.  She had no hat, probably sold it.  Again, my emotions ruled, and I led her upstairs for food and a warm bath.  Her name, she said, was Hermione, and she had worked as a governess, until she was sacked without a reference for being too enthusiastic about disciplining her charges.  As we talked, her wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire, I realized that she was the answer to my problem.

       He came on Wednesday, before Madame 104  arrived, and while  Sarah and Pansy massaged the widow and brought her to two wild and wet climaxes, he and Ruby secretly watched through peep holes.  When 104 had recovered her composure, dressed with Sarah's help, and departed, 105 was ready to re-enact his fantasy.

       Hermione stormed into the room, made up with a gray wig and theatrical make-up to look as old as 105's mother.  “You naughty boy.  You must be punished.”

       “Yes, Mother,” he replied.  “I know I shouldn't have impure thoughts or watch a naked woman.”  We installed him on the big table, tied down on his back with his legs lifted and his knees near his shoulders.  His limp cock and balls hung down, and I worried that, if he were caned, his balls might be injured.   Hermione, however, was expert at administering pain.  Ruby brought in a flatiron, the kind used for ironing clothes, which was in a pan of hot water.  Hermione tested the heat with a wet finger and, satisfied that the iron was a suitable temperature, proceeded  to apply it to his upraised buttocks.  Judging from 105's cries, it was truly painful, but, while there was a red outline of the iron on his pale buttock, the skin did not blister, as it had when I had been ironed.  Systematically, Hermione ironed his bum, until it was red as a baboon's arse, and his cock was erect.  Then she tortured him by gently stroking his hard cock, telling him he was a bad boy, depraved,  who must purge his impure thoughts.  Obviously, it was impossible for him not to have impure thoughts while his “mother” stroked his cock, but she expertly avoided his progressing to ejaculation, teasing him for about an hour  or more.  When she left him, warning him that she would punish him worse if she caught him again, Pansy and Ruby released him from his bonds.  His cock was still standing tall, so  Pansy showed Ruby how to give head, and 105 spent all over Pansy's face.

       105 must have had friends with similar interests, as we added 106 and 109 to Hermione's regular clients.  We augmented out equipment.  The big table was complemented by a facsimile of a medieval rack  and ropes on pulleys hanging from the ceiling.  We had a proper whipping bench made, a pillory to confine the neck and wrists with wooden troughs for the knees, so that the imprisoned person was immobilized with his or her bottom uppermost.  It served well for 101 to thrash and rape his virgins, but others, like 106 and 109, sometimes found themselves pilloried.  Since 101 seemed unable to distinguish between a genuine virgin cunt and a stitched up cunt,  the provision of “virgins” was less of a problem.  By using more or less experienced whores to play the part,  I was able to send them back to whence they came  without the pangs of guilt I might have felt with Ruby.

       Our little household had grown.  I had to feed myself, of course, and sometimes Robert, but also Sarah, Pansy, Ruby, and Hermione.  Of course, I could afford it.  Sarah and Ruby, having discovered the pleasures of  being roughly fucked, were willing to perform as needed, but both worried that they might get with child.  I had read that the Greeks had a way to prevent that, using a sponge soaked in vinegar and inserted deep into the cunt.  When I inserted the sponges, both girls, believing they were immune to the usual consequences, were uninhibited in their servicing of members.  Of course I also provided “French letters”, condoms, but the men declined to use them.  I could understand that.

       In a month, we had 14 members, and by summertime nearly three dozen, so we had visitors seven days a week.   Many were  satisfied to simply watch, or perhaps fuck Sarah or Ruby.  Hermione  had several regular clients, the three men I mentioned, plus more men and women.  One woman, 113, came alone and seemed to relish pain as a substitute for sexual gratification.  Hermione creatively varied the treatments.  In addition to conventional caning or strapping, while 113 was confined to the pillory, Hermione applied the hot flatiron, nettles and cactus thorns, even a mustard plasters.  She pierced the woman's lower lips and adorned them with earrings and bells.  She carved a large potato into a sort of spear point and raped the woman's asshole.  The woman, and those who covertly watched, seem well satisfied and ready for more, and she seemed, almost every week, to actually achieve sexual gratification.   At Hermione's suggestion, we obtained a large rocking horse, the sort found in a nursery but sized for an adult.  The saddle could be changed, and the stirrups could confine the rider's feet to prevent the rider from dismounting.  113 was mounted on a saddle which had post in the middle which, of course, was buried in her cunt.  There was another appendage which reached up between her lips and pressed her hidden “willie.”  Studs on the saddle pressed painfully into her buttocks and inner thighs.   She was blindfolded and did not realize that three male spectators were rocking the horse, but the surfeit of stimulation drove her into paroxysms of pleasure until she actually lost consciousness.  The spectators demanded more, and when 113 was again able to feel pain and pleasure, the ordeal was repeated until the woman was exhausted, her cunt gaping and her arse bruised from the burrowing studs.  Before she left, she gave Hermione a large tip.

       I soon discovered that Hermione rode the horse when she thought she was alone.  That being the case,  I  stitched Hermione's cunt, and she became a “virgin” for 101.  The caning obviously stimulated her, so several men took their turn, leaving her bottom covered with welts and her cunt filled with blood and semen.  Hermione loved it, but of course she could only be a virgin once.  After three weeks,  113 did not show up as expected; perhaps it was “that time of the month.”  Several spectators complained, so Hermione, instead of inflicting punishment, received it, and she rode the “cock horse”, minus the studded saddle,  until she was exhausted.

       One gentleman member brought his wife for Hermione's services, saying that she was guilty of  terrible sins, unspecified, and needed discipline.  After the first visit, during which Hermione applied the flat iron, followed by the cane, her husband requested additional services.  The next visit, after session with the cane, the wife was fitted with a leather belt, which buckled in the back.  It sat well below her waist, below the bottom of her corsets, but tightly enough that it could not be pulled down over her hips.  From the front to the back a strong copper strap went from front to back, between her legs.  It was perforated in front, so urine could pass, and split behind, going either side of her shithole, so, while it might be messy, there was no need to remove it for elimination functions.  Various objects could be fitted to the inside.  For the first week, Hermione placed two wooden balls, attached with screws through the perforations in the strap.  The foremost ball, the size of a grape. was at the upper juncture of the inner lips, where it bore against the clitoris.  The after ball, like  a small egg,  snuggled into the vestibule of her cunt.  Whenever  she sat down, the balls were pressed against those sensitive spots.  Her husband was pleased, happy to pay the price we asked for it, and he ordered his wife to wear the belt until the next week's session.   The following week, Hermione used a tawse, a  leather strap, while the copper band remained in place.  Every third or fourth

blow would strike the copper,  rubbing the wet bits, until the woman cried out and shuddered with sexual passion.  He husband could not control himself.  He removed the belt and fucked her to the satisfaction of all present.

       In another case, the member was a white haired gentleman who was probably unable to fuck his much younger wife.  He wanted to watch while another man fucked her.  He required, however, that the man be an English gentleman, so that if a child resulted, the husband would not be disappointed with it.  She was not required to disrobe entirely.  When placed in the pillory, even though she wore her corsets, her cunt was readily accessible.  Pansy prepared her, so she was nice and wet between the legs.  For the first visit, the fucker was 102, who volunteered, but the spectators lined up to be assigned for future visits.

For three months her husband watched her being fucked by a stranger, which she soon learned to accept, even to relish.  Then, perhaps because she was pregnant, she came no more.

       'Most every night of the week,  men would come and eat at the big table, wearing half-masks so their mouths were exposed.  The girls  would bring up trays of food and many bottles of wine or whiskey from the restaurant downstairs, and the men seemed in no hurry.  They enjoyed talking together and, though they never let on, I'm sure many knew each other in the social world outside the club.  Mostly, they would be spectators when the serious entertainment took place, though a few would swive Sarah or Ruby or a pretty new girl, seemingly inviting the others to admire their manly performance.  And later, when there were women to abuse, the sponsors of the abuse, often the husband of the victim, seemed to enjoy that there were spectators.  Most of the women, whether wives or whores, seemed to respond more intensely when there were spectators.   Hermione was proud of her skill, and Sarah and Ruby were much encouraged when men praised their performance.  Rather than riding the horse, Ruby in particular enjoyed riding the cock of a man who was on his back on the table, while the spectators urged her on.  Some nights she would ride five or six men.  The Caligula Club was, indeed, a social club.  All of these activities I would observe, but I never participated.  When the last member had left, I would cross my legs and squeeze my oversize “willie,” which always seemed to satisfy.

       Things went very well, and by summertime we were showing a profit of  close to two hundred pounds a month.  Projecting more than two thousand a year, Robert began to regard himself as a moneyed gentleman, dressing the part and aping the gentry.  He took to minding the vestibule, admitting members, whom he regarded as his equals.       His main interest in the business was finding cunts for our members to fill.  Virgins were preferred,  but from time to time a particularly attractive young woman would join out little family, for a night or two or much longer, if she were especially popular.  We began to use the first floor to house our “stable of mares.”

       Sometimes, however, things did not go well.  Robert, who more and more had access to the wealthier classes, recruited a new member,    number 129.  She was a beautiful young woman not many years older than I, who dressed in the most current and expensive fashions.  She was on the tall side, dark and voluptuous, and she wore no wedding ring.  The first two visits she ate with the males and merely observed the subsequent activities.  On the third visit, while the gentlemen enjoyed a post-prandial cigar, 129 went into another room with Pansy.  She emerged wearing nothing but her silk stockings and stood there, holding her boobs up with her hands, thrusting her black, curly pubic bush forward, and said, “Very well, gentlemen, who will have me first?”

       It was a memorable evening.  As she lay on her back on the dining table being fucked for the third time,  Robert left to answer the bell in the vestibule.  Suddenly a large whiskered gentleman charged up the stairs, shouting, “Where is my daughter?”  Upon arriving in the dining room, with Robert close behind, the man, who turned out to be Lord H., stood, as they say, transfixed by the sight of his daughter, her legs spread, happily engulfing 117's stiff cock.  Lord H. pulled out a revolver and fired three shots.

(to be continued?)