Lady Pixie Ch. 01: Bella

It was hardly the best of times, indeed by the end it was the worst of times, but being a Member of Parliament for a northern constituency gave me a ringside seat at what historians would call the "hungry thirties". Holding on to my seat in the 1929 election turned out to be more significant than any of us could have imagined.

Those of you familiar with the first part of my memoir (Lady's Maid) will be aware that because my husband, Archie, who had been the MP for Oldham West between 1924 and 1929 had been promoted to the Lords, I had been selected to hold on to the seat until the election. As it turned out the General Election came earlier than we had supposed, so I was still the candidate and therefore stood - and won.

The winning was, as my agent Mr Shufflebottom liked to say, "deserved". Archie, like most MPs, never went near the place, and as he had been seriously ill at the time of the 1924 election and I had fought it for him, I had ended up looking after it for him. I had an ulterior motive, which I might as well confess because if these memoirs are ever published, it will because women like me, not to mention men like Archie, will no longer have to hide our true nature.

I had known that I preferred women from the first inklings of any sexual feelings, but as the youngest daughter of a peer of the realm whose Mama was a stickler for propriety and good form, I had to be married off to a chap; a chap with breeding, of course. Now thereby hung a tale. My big sister, Lady Flora was the archetypical debutante, pretty as a picture, nice tits (golly what I'd have given to have had a pair like that) and went like a steam train in bed (or so I was told). When the heir to the Earl of Bridgewater proposed to her at only her second deb's ball, Mama was in seventh heaven, and daddy was only too happy to shell out for the nuptials. But I was a more difficult filly to sell off.

It wasn't that I knew I liked women, though I did, it was that chaps who liked women like Flora didn't like women like me. Then there was the fact that, come to think of it, there were not many women like me. You see, not to gild the lily, the fact was that I was a flat-chested midget as well as a closeted lesbian. Now the Roaring Twenties was probably the best decade in which to be a girl with no tits as that was the style (all those homosexual dress designers I suspected), but four foot ten (yes that's right 4' 10") was too low a hurdle for most chaps. Then I got lucky.

First my maid, Annie took me in hand (literally, she spanked my arse, you can read all about it in the first part of the memoirs) and made me her pussy-licker, and then, to everyone's amazement, and to Mama's utter joy, a chap proposed to me. Archie, the younger son of the Duke of Monmouth was what was later called "a friend of Dorothy". He liked to spend week-ends in Berlin, or to be frank, liked strong ends in Berlin to be spent in him so to say. But his Pa wanted him to be an MP, and an MP had to have a wife, and Archie asked just as both his parents, and mine, were thinking they'd never dispose of us. It was a marriage made in mutual convenience which is why we are still together. He's never been near my cunt, and I have no intention of ever going near his thingy; it works for us both.

Going up north to Oldham every week-end gave me the chance to be with Annie, who as my maid, slept in my room at the Piccadilly Hotel in Manchester; not that much sleep was had. She and I explored my submissive nature fully, and it was huge fun for us both, to the extent that we even pulled into our bed the Labour MP I had displaced, Alice, and one of the maids in the hotel, Dot. But all good things come to an end, and Annie and Alice, between whom there had been an instant marriage of minds, had decided they needed to be together. Dot had got married, and all in all, it had seemed that Oldham would become a thing of the past, not least since Archie was made a peer in the New Year's honours list. As Baron Fortescue he would be ineligible to sit in the Commons and a new MP would have to be found. As a General Election had to take place in 1929, and as the seat was a marginal, it was thought best that as someone with a local reputation, I'd be best placed to keep the seat warm. Then Mr Baldwin called a general election for May, so I ended up as the candidate for that.

I won at a time when most Tory MPs for northern seats lost theirs. That meant that only a year after women of my age were allowed to vote, I was one of the few female MPs in the Commons; but the losses meant that I was no longer on the Government side of the House. The Labour Party, led by Mr MacDonald was in power.

With Annie and Alice living together and Dot married, I had to confess that going up north every blooming week-end had lost some of its attraction. It lost even more when Annie announced that she and Alice were emigrating to Australia. I love their Christmas cards, but oh how I missed Annie who had first shown me how to be me.

That autumn session was ghastly. That utter shit Winston Churchill was clearly out to unseat Baldwin, allying himself with the most right-wing element of the party, who, as they occupied the safest seats, were the ones left in a majority after a bad election result. The prospect of the bumptious little bastard leading the party made me wonder whether I really ought to defect, but daddy and mummy would not have liked that, and it would have embarrassed Archie, though for fuck's sake, you'd have thought that they'd all have been more worried at the prospect of Archie being found in flagrante with Guardsman in Hyde Park. Being buggered by a Grenadier is, it seems, less embarrassing than a wife becoming a Labour MP, or so Lord Fortescue of Hampstead (Archie) said when I ran the idea past him.

"Look old girl, you're such a brick, and don't think I don't feel for you, especially since Annie emigrated and Lady Dora died, but you just can't."

Lady Dora had become a wonderful compensation for losing Annie, but her shit of an unfaithful husband had finally made her pregnant, and the poor thing had died in childbirth. As I said, 1929 was an annus horrendus for me. To be fair, it wasn't too good for most others, and compared to what was to come in 1931, it was a teddy bear's picnic.

"I see, so it's okay for you to be buggered on the Heath, but not for me to defect?"

"Look old thing, they're not the same, you know that. be reasonable!"

Oh men! why is it whenever you say something they can't answer they ask you to be "reasonable"? I did not fucking feel "reasonable" and so I threw a bread roll at Archie.

"I say old girl", he said, rubbing his head, "you ever thought of trying for the Ladies' cricket team? I'm sure you'd like to bowl a maiden over."

Oh bloody Archie, he's always known how to defuse me by making me laugh. But he was closer to the truth than his joke about maiden overs (six balls to an over, and if the batsman fails to score it's called a maiden) - golly gosh, did I want to be bowled over by a maiden.

So I stayed with the Tories. Truth to be told I rather liked Mr Baldwin who was a good egg, if bone idle. The whole thing was really run by the forbidding corvid-like figure of Neville Chamberlain, who, as that rogue Lloyd George quipped, had been a "not bad Lord Mayor of Birmingham in a lean year". Be that as it may have been, Neville was a formidable operator and had Baldwin gone, he would most likely have replaced him. No one liked him, but then no one liked Churchill either, and at least Neville was not a self-publicising bumptious toad.

I watched autumn go into winter and then into spring, as Churchill and the Right, aided by those utter, utter shits, the Press Barons Rothermere and Beaverbrook, attempted to undermine Baldwin. They came close, but failed, at least in 1930. Then, in 1931, the heavens came crashing down.

None of us had expected Labour to be much use at governing, and we were not disappointed. But even those who had thought them a useless shower of Reds, best left under beds, were shocked when in the face of the greatest economic crisis of the past fifty years, they ran away. They knew cuts needed to be made, but could not agree to make them. The King, bless him, asked MacDonald to to stay and form a National Government formed of all parties, to get us through the crisis. It was supposed to be a temporary measure, but in the winter, as things got worse, and a general election was called.

The election had attracted international interest, and the the newspapers, always looking for an "angle" focussed on "Lady Pixie, the peoples' princess" as the Express called me. Really, even that evil gnome Beaverbrook should have know better. I was not a bloody princess, and I was actually Lady Fortescue, but what's a girl to do? And as it happened, something good came of it - or rather someone good.

As I arrived at the hotel after yet another election meeting, tired and definitely missing Annie and in need of "relaxation". I decided to grab a drink before bedtime and went to the bar. This was most daring of me, but hey, I was the MP after all.

I was on my second glass of chablis when a voice behind me, with a definite American accent said:

"Hey, aren't you Lady Pixie, the peoples' princess"?

Polite as always, I was about to tell the owner of said voice that I was not a princess, etcetera, when what hove into view to sit opposite me took my breath away.

The blue eyes sparkled, but the second thing to hit me was a cleavage into which I wanted to jump and lose myself.

"Hi, I'm Bella", said this vision of loveliness sitting looking at me, "and my eyes are up here."

She giggled.

"I'm awestruck, and sorry, yes, I should take my eyes off your cleavage. I am sorry."

"No you're not", she giggled, "I had heard you were of the sapphist tendency, and from where your eyes are straying I'd say that's so. Any comments for the New York Times, Lady Pixie?"

Oh fuck! I thought, a journalist, on the eve of the election. Fuck, fuck, fucketty fuck!

Seeing my consternation, she put her hand out and caught mine.

"Hey, baby, it's a joke, I'd never do that to a girl, it ain't like I'm not partial to pussy myself from time to time."

Well, as Archie liked to say "bugger me through my oilskins" (I did wonder about that one, come to think of it).

"Oh, God", I said, "sorry, it's just ... ."

"Been a long day", she said, refilling my glass from the bottle she was holding with the hand that was not holding mine, "I know, I've been covering the campaign for the Post, You're quite the thing Lady Pixie. They seem to love you, hereabouts. Your Charleston is legendary, as are your stocking tops. I wouldn't mind seeing those. How'd you like to take our drinks upstairs? Your suite or mine?"

As I went with her it suddenly occurred to me, she'd not supposed I'd say no. I felt obliged to say something as we stood together in the lift.

"I hope you don't think I do this on a first date?"

"Do what? Put out?"

I felt myself blushing.

"You know what I mean."

"You want to reassure me you're not a slut?"

"Yes."

"What if I want you to be a slut for me tonight?"

That, as old Hamlet once put it in another context, was the question.

Within moments of getting into my suite she was into my knickers, and whatever protestations I had been about to make about not being "that sort of girl", I was one with Bella.

Yes, I know, you'll be thinking what a tart, but before you do consider the facts. I'd not had sex in seven long months, was quite exhausted from campaigning, and most of all, I was bloody lonely. Don't get me wrong, Archie was the best husband a lesbian could have, but of course, that meant he was no bloody use to me in bed, and there's only so much a girl can do, however nimble her fingers. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it. It's that or admitting I was a slut.

As Bella's big tits pinned my face to the wall of the suite, her hands went up my dress and, pulling my knickers to one side, she began to slide her fingers across my wetness. Somehow, I managed to slip the straps of her dress down to reveal the corsetry which kept those gorgeous tits in place.

"Bed!"

With that, Bella pulled me to the bed, and kissed me passionately. I fiddled with my dress to get it off, as she unhooked the corsetry. I gasped as her big, heavy tits bounced free.

"Want!" I groaned as I groped them shamelessly. As I bit and sucked her swelling nipples, she moaned and pulled my knickers down. I managed to wriggle out of them and she positioned herself above me. Seeing her tits swaying there like two udders was too much. I sucked and bit one nipple, then the other, as she pushed my legs apart, her knee pressing into my gooey warm wetness. I rubbed hard against her, my clit tingling.

As I sucked and bit and she moaned, I managed to get my right hand to her cunt and was taken aback to find no pubic hair! I was too worked up to stop and wonder, and concentrated on finding the entrance to her cunt, and curled my fingers in. She moaned even more loudly.

"Fuckkkk, yes, yes, bite me, bite me!"

Never let it be said that I did not know how to respond to an invitation. I bit her thick juicy nipple and she screamed in pleasure - even more so when my fingers found her special place and my thumb located her clit. She rocked her cunt onto my hand whilst I explored her wetness, my teeth and tongue pleasuring those magnificent tits. The scent of her, the sounds she was making, the intoxication of her excitement set little fires burning in me, and as she got closer and closer to the inevitable, to my amazement, and with no manual stimulation from her or myself, I felt the fires getting out of control. My tummy rippled, sinews stretching as (and even now, the memory of that first orgasm stimulates me) we came together in an inferno of lust.

She collapsed onto me, shifting to the side as I began to say that I could not breath. We lay together, a sweaty panting mess of lesbian goo. I'd never had anything like that before, but damn it, I sure wanted it again.