Assholes and Our Souls

"Quite true," he said. "I know this to be true, because in my previous life, I too was a woman. Although I faced many trials in my short life, I kept myself pure. And as a reward I was reborn as Bartram Snargs."

He offered her another cigarette, which she took and lit with the smouldering butt of the other. As they sat together smoking on the bed, she sipped her tea and listened to the bizarre narrative of this peculiar gentleman.

I was not a man in my former life. I was born as a girl in the year of our lord 1839. My parents were the Reverend Robert Sexton, and his wife Jemima. I was the youngest of five, and the only girl. They named me Bethany. My mother died in childbirth, and my father died of grief and consumption some years later. Of my three brothers who had survived infancy, the eldest two had both chosen a life in the army, and the third, Reginald, had chosen to follow in our father's footsteps and was studying as a curate. The fourth brother, Cuthbert, had died of whooping cough as an infant and I never knew him. So, when my father died, I went to live with his sister, Aunt Eunice.

Aunt Eunice was a stern and proud woman. She beat me regularly, instructed me in etiquette, religion and embroidery, and sent me to work in her husband's hat shop. It was here that I met Titania.

I was used to being told that I was a pretty girl. My aunt, her drunken husband, their son and daughter, and the local parson, had all at one time or another commented on my looks and described me as "pretty". Without wanting to sound too vain, I was inclined to agree with them. I was tall and graceful. My skin was milky white. My eyes were amber. And my hair was a long cascade of wavy red that reached down to the small of my back. I certainly was pretty. But no-one had ever called me beautiful until I met Titania. I kept my long, red hair tied up while doing my work, but it was this hair that first attracted her to me.

"My dear girl," she said to me in an unfamiliar accent. "You have such beautiful hair. Let me see it properly."

Having been instructed to always do my best to accede to requests from customers, I unpinned my hair and let it down. She marvelled at my hair, heaping praise on it, even touching and smelling it. I was incredibly flattered but also a little abashed by the attention from this glamorous lady.

"Such beautiful hair and such a beautiful girl," she purred, staring at me in a way that made me blush. "Tell me, do you enjoy working here in this hat shop?"

"Yes, I do, ma'am," I replied meekly.

"Do you ever wish you could see more of the world? Go on a great adventure? Meet new and interesting people?" She spoke in a deep, raspy voice that I found hypnotic.

"Yes ma'am," I squeaked. "Sometimes."

Titania bought three large hats, and as she was paying for them, she matter-of-factly asked Aunt Eunice "How much for the girl?"

"The girl is not for sale," said Aunt Eunice curtly. "We only sell hats here, not young women."

"I will give you fifty guineas for her," said the mysterious Titania.

"You have your hats, that will be all," replied Aunt Eunice.

"Seventy-five guineas."

I saw Aunt Eunice blink.

"Make it a round one hundred and you have yourself a deal."

"Ninety," countered Titania

"Done," said Eunice.

"A-ha!" cried Titania triumphantly. She counted out the money, and I was told to take the three hat boxes and go with my new guardian. And so, I was sold, and left the family I had been adopted into with only the clothes I was wearing.

At first, I thought Titania must be a wig maker, due to her interest in my hair. But as we climbed into the carriage that was waiting for her outside, she began to explain to me the nature of her business. "I buy and sell young ladies," she explained. As the carriage bumped along the narrow, cobbled streets, she further explained that she intended to sell me at auction, and she fully expected to make a return of three hundred percent on her investment in me. She said that her clients tended to be wealthy noblemen and newly rich industrialists, and one of these most likely would want to buy me to be kept as a mistress. She said if we were unfortunate, she may have to sell me to a keeper of a bawdy house, and I might be set to work servicing sailors and soldiers. "But," she said wisely, "even that is preferable to a life working in a hat shop."

She went on to explain that if I was particularly unlucky, I might be sold to a man who wanted to hunt me, as hunting girls was currently quite fashionable amongst the aristocracy at present, and stylish young men would buy girls to hunt on horseback with their friends. "But that doesn't happen that often," she reassured me.

The carriage took us to a large house in the centre of town. Titania showed me inside, then gave me into the care of a sour-faced old woman she called Babushka. This old lady made me strip naked, and gave me a very thorough examination, checking everything from my teeth to my toenails, and making notes in ink on a large yellow ledger. After this, she put me in a bathtub and scrubbed me all over, trimmed my nails, brushed my hair and dressed me in a simple white shift. I was then led into a parlour, where half a dozen other young ladies of similar age, similarly scared looking and identically dressed to myself, sat waiting on wooden benches. After an hour or so of sitting in silence under the watchful eye of the old maid, Titania reappeared and led one of the girls away, a pretty little blonde haired young lady.

The girls were led away one by one, Titania reappearing at intervals of ten minutes or so. I patiently waited my turn, my apprehension building as I sat in the cold parlour.

Eventually, it was me Titania took by the hand and led away. I was taken down a long corridor, through a wooden door and into a large, opulently furnished drawing room. A group of about two dozen richly dressed men and a few elegant ladies lounged on armchairs and chaise lounges in the room. Titania led me to a wooden block which I was made to stand on at the front of the room. Titania took her place besides me and read from a sheet of the ledger paper the old lady had made her notes on earlier.

"Our next lot, ladies and gentlemen," announced Titania proudly, "is a young lady by the name of Bethany. A very attractive specimen as you can see. Has all her own teeth, no outward blemishes apart from a small mole on her shoulder blade, and her hymen membrane has been verified as intact. Can we start the bidding at two hundred and fifty guineas? Come on now gentleman, do not miss the opportunity to be the owner of this fine creature."

The competition for me in the auction was intense, with two gentlemen emerging as the keenest bidders. A dark-haired, foppish gentleman with a large black moustache, and an elderly crippled aristocrat with grey hair who was sat in a bath chair and attended by a giant, stone-faced valet. The bidding was fierce, but eventually the dark-haired man conceded defeat, and I was sold to the old cripple for five hundred and seventy guineas.

My new owner seemed incredibly pleased with his purchase, he rubbed his withered hands together as he scrutinised me with his bulging, bloodshot eyes, looking like a vulture eyeing a fresh carcass.

We left the town house together, the valet pushing the old man in the bath chair and me walking alongside them. The old cripple, my new owner, asked me my name.

"Bethany Sexton, sir," I answered timidly.

"Hmph, an adequate name," he sneered. "And don't call me sir. I'm a bloody lord. What is your father's occupation?"

"My father died, my lord. But while he was alive, he was a parish priest."

"Ha! So, he got promoted to working at the head office?" the old man joked callously, making the valet laugh in pretend amusement. "Listen, I don't want any of that god-talk while you're staying with us. I've bought you as a companion for my son, and I don't want you filling his head with lots of silly nonsense, do you understand?"

I wanted to protest, but too timid to argue, I simply said "Yes, my lord."

"Your old pater, did he ever spank you before he died?"

"No, my lord. But my Aunt Eunice used to beat me sometimes."

"Good for Aunt Eunice. Let me warn you, if you misbehave at all while you're in my care, you'll be given such a thrashing you'll wish you had already gone to be with your old man." He coughed and spat onto the pavement and leered at me maniacally.

We continued to walk along the street, the tall valet pushing the bath chair at a smart pace. Other pedestrians were scattered before him. I realised that we were headed for the railway station. This made me nervous, as I had never travelled on a steam train before, and I was a little frightened of them. As it was, I need not have worried. After reaching the platform, the valet helped his master on board one of the carriages. He then picked me up and dropped me into a wooden tea chest. A lid was forced down on top of me and secured in place with nails. I screamed at my confinement, but the valet simply laughed and told me to be quiet. Then he loaded the bath chair and the tea chest containing me onto the baggage carriage. The whistle screamed as the locomotive pulled out of the station. And so, it was that I left my hometown, trapped in a dark wooden box, the property of an eccentric and unpleasant elderly lord.

The train journey seemed to last for days. I'm not sure exactly how long it was. I was curled up inside the tea chest, it was pitch black, so I had no way of marking time. The noise of the locomotive was deafening. Terrified, cold and claustrophobic, I eventually fell into a fitful sleep, the thundering of the train following me into unconsciousness.

When I awoke, I was aware of light coming in through the gaps of the wood of the tea chest. I heard voices, but the thunderous noise of the locomotive had stopped. I felt incredibly uncomfortable in the cramped conditions, I desperately wanted to stretch my aching joints, but I could hardly move or shift my position in the tiny confines of the wooden crate, only big enough to contain one young lady. The voices were arguing, and I recognised one of them as Lord Stanley's valet.

I felt movement and heard men straining as the crate was lifted up and then promptly banged down again, jarring me violently and making me scream. I heard a snigger outside, then someone banged on the side of the crate and yelled at me "Keep quiet in there!"

I lay in the crate for what seemed like ages. I tried to peep out of one of the gaps in the wood that was near to my face but couldn't make anything out.

After a long, long time, I heard voices again, the valet and the voice of a young man with an upper-class accent.

"I want to see her now!" the lad was saying insistently.

"Very good, your lordship," said the valet in his deep monotonous voice.

Suddenly, there was a very loud bang next to my head, making me squeal with terror. Another loud, frightening bang, and then the sound of wood breaking, as the top of the tea chest was ripped away. The light dazzled me, but I was aware of a figure stood over me. It was the stone-faced valet, he was holding a metal crowbar that he had just used to lever off the top of the crate.

"You can stand up now, miss," the valet flatly told me.

Blinking, feeling shaky, and taking the valet's hand for support, I stood up in the wooden crate. Stood just behind the valet was a handsome young man, impeccably dressed, with a shock of bright ginger hair. He glared at me with disdain, threw his hands up in a gesture of frustration, then bellowed "I said I wanted one with big titties!"

Dazed, I realised the boy was talking about me. The valet helped me step out of the broken crate. We were on a huge gravel driveway in front of an imposingly massive country house. It was an enormous baroque pile, with crenulations around the roof, stained glass windows, masses of ivy growing across the front, and an enormous stone staircase leading up to the imposing black front door. This was to be my new home, Stanley Hall. The sun was up, and the sky was bright and cloudless.

"We can feed her up sir. She will fill out a bit," said the valet.

I self consciously covered my bosom with my folded arms.

"Well, she had better grow some bloody boobies!" huffed the handsome young lad, then he turned around and stomped across the driveway towards the entrance of the house.

"Who was that?" I asked the valet nervously.

"He is his Lordship Viscount Eric Bartholomew Stanley, first baronet of Pumpsham. He is Lord Stanley's first and only son."

The valet showed me into the house and took me to my room. It was a small, sparsely furnished bed chamber in the garret at the very top of the great house. A bath had been drawn, and fresh clothes laid out for me. The valet left me to wash and dress, and I heard the key turn in the lock as he left.

The boy who had greeted me on my arrival at Stanley Hall, and who had been so uncomplimentary about the size of my breasts, was Eric. He was young, tall, slim, and incredibly handsome. It was this young man that I had been bought to act as companion to.

His father, Lord Stanley, was concerned that without female company, the young lad might turn his youthful yearnings elsewhere, that they might become diverted and unnatural. I had been specifically chosen by the elder Lord Stanley as a fine example of the female form. Eric did not seem to always agree with his father on what made a girl attractive though. Sometimes he would call me ugly. Sometimes he would berate me over the simplest of things, such as the way I walked or the length of my fingers. But he could also be very charming.

He was fond of playing practical jokes and tricks. I remember on our first day together, he handed me a glass of golden liquid and asked me if I had ever tried wine before.

"Only at communion," I said.

"Go on, take a sip," he encouraged me with a smile.

I took a sip from the wine glass, it tasted brackish. He grinned at me and urged me to drink some more, which I did.

"What kind of wine is this?" I asked, confused by the salty astringent taste.

"It's called my piss," he said with a smile. "I filled the glass up from the chamber pot under my bed."

This was only the first of many unpleasant pranks he played on me.

The food we ate at Stanley Hall did not agree with me. I was not used to the richness or the quantity of the food that the aristocracy ate. Dinner was always four courses. I was expected to eat it all and it played havoc with my digestion.

However, I was too timid to use the lavatory in doors, as I suspected that Eric would listen at the door or spy on me in some way, and the outside latrines behind the servants' quarters scared me, as they were dark and smelly and full of large spiders. As a result, I got into the habit of relieving myself first thing in the morning into the chamber pot that was kept under my bed, and then carrying the chamber pot out of the house and emptying it into the brook that ran through the woods at the west side of the garden.

One morning, due to the enormous dinner of roasted duck, boiled cabbage and mashed swede I had consumed the previous evening, the turd I produced was particularly thick and weighty, so it was almost too big to be contained within the pot, and the smell that was coming off of it was unpleasant in the extreme. It was so big that it made my bum hole sting as it was coming out of me. I hurried out of the house in my nightgown and slippers, bearing my smelly cargo with me, keen to be rid of it as quickly as possible.

As I was crossing the lawn, I was surprised when Eric suddenly appeared from behind a rhododendron bush and accosted me.

"Hey there! You, girl!" he shouted. "What have you got there?" I tried to hide the chamber pot behind my back as he came over to me, but it was no use, he had already spotted it and knew what it was. He came striding across the lawn towards me, wearing tweeds and riding boots. He looked in the pot. "Good grief! Look at the size of it. Is that yours?"

I blushed with shame.

He laughed heartily. "I don't think I've ever seen a turd so big, apart from out of a farm animal! How did you even do that?"

He grabbed the pot from me, and tipped it out on the lawn, the turd landing on the grass with a heavy thud. He chortled at the enormous pooh.

Suddenly, I heard a shout from the house. Eric quickly thrusted the chamber pot back into my hands. I looked over my shoulder, and saw Lord Stanley hobbling across the lawn towards us, his walking stick in one hand, and supported on his other arm by his valet.

"You there!" the old man shouted at us. "What are you two doing? Eric, why aren't you at the stables yet?"

"Sorry, papa," Eric said sounding sincere. The young lad smiled at me and winked, then dashed away towards the stables, leaving me stood in the middle of the lawn with the chamber pot in my hand and the giant stool on the grass in front of me.

Lord Stanley's gaze slowly sank down until it alighted on the lengthy log, that lay glistening and steaming on the ground in between us. His eyes bulged at this unseemly sight.

"What is the meaning of this?" he roared. He glared at the chamber pot in my hand. "You dare to befoul my croquet lawn?"

"Oh no sir, your lordship. I wouldn't dream of such a thing."

"Did you produce this loathsome thing?" he snarled, pointing at the poop with the tip of his walking stick.

"Well, yes your lordship, but..." I began to try to explain but I felt confused and flustered.

"And did you carry it out here to the croquet lawn?" he barked at me.

"I did, my lord, but..."

"Enough! The outrage!" he roared, making me jump. "Impertinent young wench! Slatternly strumpet! I suggest you clear up this mess immediately."

I knelt down on the grass next to the huge brown jobbie. I could see steam coming off of it in the cool morning air. I knew he expected me to pick it up with my hands and put it back in the chamber pot, but I could not bring myself to touch it.

"Can I fetch a shovel?" I looked at him pleadingly.

"Watkins," he said to his valet coolly, as he continued to stare at me and my turd. "You know what we do with the puppies when they make a mess?"

"Very good, your lordship," said the valet. He stepped forward and seized the hair at the back of my head with one of his giant, slab-like hands. He forced my head down towards the ground, I screamed, and then he rubbed my face into my excrement. My nose was pushed into the soft warmth of the turd, and then he moved my head from side to side, rubbing my face across the filth until it covered my nose, cheeks, and chin. The smell was awful. He held my head down on the turd for a few long moments, then let me go. I recoiled backwards and sat on the grass, and I shrieked.

Lord Stanley looked at my shit-smeared face and smirked. "That's how we deal with messy young women. From now on, when I tell you to do something you do it," he sneered. Then he shouted "Now clear up that mess!" pointing his cane at the excrement.

I did as best as I could. The turd was squashed and broken up after my face being rubbed in it, but I scooped it up with my hands and put it back in the pot. My hands and face caked in my own filth, I began to weep as I sat on the lawn in front of him.

"Oh look, she's blubbing now," he spat disdainfully. "Come on, Watkins, let's go and inspect the horses."

I was left miserably sobbing and covered in my own shit as Lord Stanley hobbled away humming to himself happily, the valet following close behind him.

Before I carry on with my story, it is worth noting that in the 19th century most people did not wash every day. Even respectable, well-to-do people generally only bathed once a week. Also, they had very different attitudes to body hair in those days, and the safety razor had not been invented, so it was almost unheard of for people to trim their pubic hair. As a result, the average pussy in the 1800's was a lot hairier and a lot smellier than most pussies today. I myself had a fine red bush, but I did my best to keep my vagina clean and free of odour. However, I was soon to discover how unpleasant a pudenda could be. Lady Druscilla Farrington-Smythe, Eric's maiden aunt, had a fanny that was hairier and smellier than any I had ever seen.