Lady Pixie Ch. 04: A Spirit of Revolt

The "new deal" kept me busy as an MP, and though I had hoped others would follow suite, I was disappointed - at first. I was, as I told Mr Baldwin, convinced that if Britain was to avoid the sort of revolutions we had seen in the Russian and Habsburg Empires, our ruling class needed to show that it would act to help those suffering from the great crash. He agreed, but rather shrugged his shoulders at the inertia of so many of our fellow MPs. But my pessimism was, whilst not totally unfounded, at least premature.

One morning, a few weeks after the election, over breakfast at our town house in Mayfair, Archie, who always opened the post, assuming anything official would be for him, exclaimed:

"I say, old girl, sorry! I thought this one from Lambeth Palace was for me, but it isn't, it's for you. What've you been up to that old Lang swine wants to see you? Do you need ticking off for being a bad girl? I was rather thinking of taking you on my next visit to Berlin for that purpose."

"What?"

It was early, it was Saturday, my brain was not in gear, and it occurred to me that I might well be going mad. I thought I had just heard my husband, Archie, who was most definitely not into women, say he was taking me to Berlin to be disciplined! Moreover, I was sure he had mentioned the Archbishop of Canterbury. I decided to play dumb, which given I had not understood him, was not too hard.

"It's just that we have a delegation going to Berlin to talk about the reparations situation, and some of the MPs are taking their ladies. I thought you might like to come my little one?"

Oh bless him! Archie was a darling. We were ideal for each other. Neither of us had the slightest interest in bothering the other sexually, but we had grown used to looking out for each other, and got on much better than most married couple.

"Oh Archie, you are a pet! But don't you usually, erm, find entertainment elsewhere when you are there?"

"I do, old girl, but there's a rather decadent club called the 'Kit Kat', which also caters for ladies with your tastes. Nice busty blonde German mädchens who wield a mean crop. What do you say?"

I was rather nonplussed to tell the truth, but as long as there were private rooms such as the ones I knew he used for whatever it was he got up to (and it occurred to me, suddenly, that I hadn't the foggiest idea of what he actually did), then the idea of submitting to a dominant blonde had obvious attractions.

"Sounds fun, when?"

"Beginning of next month, if you can spare the time from running soup kitchens."

"That would work for me. But I still don't see what the Archbishop of Canterbury has to do with it?"

"Do keep up, old girl! This missive," he said, handing me a note typed on the stiffest paper outside a Court invitation, "is from the A of Cant. Here, see for yourself."

Still not getting what that had to do with Berlin, but giving up the attempt, I took the note, which was on official Lambeth Palace writing paper.

"Oh my!" I exclaimed, almost spitting my tea out.

"What is it? Official excommunication for being addicted to unnatural vice?"

Archie had somehow found what had happened in Oldham hilarious. I was not quite sure why, since what he got up in Hyde Park was actually illegal, while what I go up to wasn't. Apparently, my mother-in-law, Lady Cecily, had told me, at the time male homosexuality was made illegal, no one had possessed the courage to tell Queen Victoria about sapphism, so that was never made an offence.

"No," I snapped back, "it's the decree nisi because we have never consummated our union. Apparently as you come up to a decade of marriage, the certificate runs out if you've never rogered your wife."

I smiled and, bless him, he fell for it.

"Gosh Pixie, that's not on, I'll get Pa onto it, we can't have that!"

I explained I had been joking, but oddly, where his jokes were always the acme of wit and poise, mine were ''not funny''; bless.

I explained that it was an invitation to join a Church commission to enquire into the state of the working classes and what might be done to help them. I had, the letter said, been recommended by the Archbishop of York because of my ''pioneering work in Oldham West''. Perhaps I had been premature in thinking that my "new deal" had made no impact on anyone else?

It transpired that I had indeed been wrong. William Temple, the Archbishop of York, had the reputation of being something of a "Red", and he had agitated for the Church to do something about the social consequences of the economic crisis, hence the Commission.

"Who'd have thought old Lang swine would have such a good idea?"

I corrected Archie. It was not Cosmo Gordon Lang, the Scottish-born Archbishop of Canterbury (hence the sobriquet) who had come up with the idea, I explained, but Temple.

"Gosh old girl, be careful, I thought we'd agreed you were not joining Labour, and given their collapse, you surely aren't thinking of going there now?"

Dear Archie! Like most of our class, he was terrified of Communism after what had happened in 1917 in Russia, when the Commies had exterminated people like us. It was natural enough, but as I explained to the dear dim boy, there were more workers than there were aristocrats and rich people, and on a purely utilitarian level, if we didn't show ourselves willing to help alleviate their suffering, then we could hardly blame the workers if they looked to the "Reds".

He shook his head.

"Don't see it old girl, the poor have always been with us and always will be, can't change that."

For the umpteenth time, I explained to him that Jesus had rather indicated we should help the poor and needy, but it passed over his head. Fortunately, there were those who did get it, and Billy Temple was one of them. If it had been left to Archie and Churchill, we'd all have been executed come the revolution.

I accepted the invitation, and found the Lambeth meeting fascinating. Baldwin, who as Lord President of the Council, was officially MacDonald's deputy, but in reality, as leader of the largest party in the National Government, its most powerful figure, caught me in the Smoking Room after a debate on the economy.

"I'm glad you accepted the invitation Lady P."

"I did wonder if you hadn't played a part in it?"

"You're setting a good example up there, wish some of our chaps would follow it, but maybe Billy Temple's Commission will facilitate that. I've also a mind, milady, to appoint you to a junior post working with me. How do you fancy being one of my parliamentary private secretaries?"

To those unfamiliar with our arcane system of government, I ought to explain that this had nothing to do with stenography. I was not about to join a typing-pool. Cabinet Ministers had what were, in effect, assistants who were other MPs, and one as senior as Baldwin had a number, and their job was to keep him informed on what was going on in the party.

"I'm honoured, Mr B", I replied, honestly taking it as a compliment. "But my finger is hardly on the parliamentary pulse."

"That's not why I want you there, Lady P. I am sending a signal to Winston and the Right, I want MPs like you to be the future of our Party, not Winston and his fascisti. I swear he thinks he's our answer to Mussolini!"

I sympathised. Winston Churchill had been working with the Imperialists in the party ever since 1929, and he was currently leading a rebellion over the Government's commitment to give India greater self-government. The silly old fool seemed to see a connection between skin colour and the ability to govern oneself. That settled it, if it was one in the eye to Winston, I was in.

Rather sweetly, I got letters of congratulations from some colleagues, and even some from Labour, which was rather nice of them. At the Lambeth meeting Archbishop Temple said it was good thing, as it was a sign that Baldwin was taking the needs of the people seriously. I was not so sure, I told him, because however lovely Mr B was, it was Neville Chamberlain who held the purse strings, and he made Ebenezer Scrooge look like a spendthrift; we had our work cut out.

By the time the Berlin trip came round, I was ready for it. To my utter delight, Bella was accompanying the British Delegation to report on the meeting for the New York Times.

I invited her round to the house on the Thursday, telling her she might as well leave with myself and Archie on the Friday after breakfast.

As we relaxed afterwards, I could see the sparkle in her eyes. I was glad. One of my many unfortunate characteristics was a lack of confidence in my powers of attraction. It was easy enough to dismiss this as just me being me, but there was supporting evidence. Annie, whom I had come to love, had nonetheless preferred Alice. Did I mind? No, I wanted what was best for her, but part of me felt rejected. It was silly, but it was there, and losing Lady Dora had not helped. So I had my doubts as to whether I could really hold Bella's attention. That she was looking at me as a cat looks at a saucer of cream was reassuring.

"So, how does this work, Pix?"

I looked at her quizzically.

"Your maids, butlers, your husband, erm, how do we do what we want and accommodate them?"

I giggled, deliberately pretending not to understand.

"Golly, that would be quite a gathering, and I am not sure the butler and the housekeeper would play, and as for Archie, well I am pretty sure he wouldn't either."

"You know that wasn't what I meant Pix!"

"I do, but couldn't resist", I giggled.

I explained that Archie didn't mind, or care, and that the staff were discreet and were to be treated as though they were invisible.

"Gee, you Brits and your class system! No wonder we had a revolution!"

"Well," I cooed at her coyly, "I suppose that as you have a captive member of the upper classes at your disposal, you might want to do something about that?"

And she did.

Back in my bedroom Bella wasted no time in asserting the revolutionary spirit.

"I want you in your underwear, NOW!"

Without hesitation, I unbuttoned my skirt and blouse, taking off my chemise with them, standing in my stockings, suspenders and knickers.

"Come here!"

I did so.

I could feel myself blushing, but knew my nipples were rock hard. I also knew she could smell my arousal.

Smiling, she pulled my kickers down, and I stepped out of them. She picked them up and made me smell them.

"Is my British Lady a dirty slut?"

"Yes Miss Bella!"

It was, after all, no more than the truth. I was her slut. My pussy was so wet, and I could see, as well as smell the evidence as I sniffed.

She placed her hands on my bum cheeks and pulled me into her, immediately running her tongue through my labia, tasting me and making me moan.

Unable to resist any longer I threw back my head, and enjoying the pleasure of finally having her tongue in my labia, I whimpered. As her probing tongue stopped just short of my clit, I shivered, then she used her mouth and tongue to suck on my aching clit. As she did so, she pushed her hand in, right up to her knuckles. I felt myself tighten around her fingers the further she pushed in.

I felt her finger slide through my labia and the gently push into my dripping cunt. i shuddered, and then, as her lips touched my clit, I moaned more loudly. My breath came in ragged snatches, my knees felt weak, I was just holding on.

Bella held me by my hips, and it was just as well, because as her tongue began to feather my aching clit, I felt myself wobble. I so wanted and indeed needed to cum, but I had been well-trained by Annie, and there was no way I was going to give in to my urges, however needy I felt.

"You are being a very good girl, Lady Pixie. How badly do you need to cum?"

The juxtaposition of my title with the demeaning but arousing name-calling, almost made me yield. Concentrating grimly I replied:

"Yes, Mistress Bella, I sooooo, sooooo, sooooooo need to cum!"

"Are you a slut, Lady Pixie?"

With her finger teasing my aching clit, there could be no doubt that I was not just a slut, I was, as I now admitted, her slut.

"Yes, yesss, your slut, your slut, I'll do anything to have a cummie."

Bella stopped teasing, leaving me sweating, panting and dripping.

"Really? Anything? Be very careful Lady Pixie. I will hold you to it."

"Mistress, you know I want to be yours, and it's not just because I need to orgasm."

Bella's voice shifted register, into a note of care and concern.

"I know, little one. I will look after you, but if you are mine, I will own you Pixie. You will need to clear any lovers with me first, and you will be my pussy-girl. Speaking of which, get on your knees and service me. I am so wet."

Instantly ignoring my own aches, I knelt.

Bella raised her skirts as she sat in the chair, and lifted her bum so I could pull her knickers down. They were soaked, and filaments of her sticky juices stretched from her shaved pussy as I pulled them down.

Taking my middle finger with my index finger, I slipped both inside her gooey warm wetness. Bella gasped. I sense she was so worked up that she needed something faster than my normal leisurely approach. Looking up at her while fingering her, I could see her eyes already glazing. She gripped my fingers tightly.

As my fingers opened her, i put my lips on her unhooded clit and sucked, then licked it, before taking a third finger and pushing it into her, and opening my fingers inside and trying to stretch her wider. She pushed herself onto my questing fingers, moaning as she did so, her breath becoming ragged and loud as her pussy squelched lewdly. I used my tongue to tease her clit as my fingers pushed in and out faster, deeper and harder.

My fingers went knuckle deep again, as my tongue lapped her clit. I could feel her tensing, and as her pussy gripped my fingers, she grabbed my head and squirted into my face as she came with a shuddering orgasm.

I licked her gently, cleaning her softly, loving her taste and smell, and the feeling that I had pleased her.

"Well, my red-faced little Pixie, I sense you are now mine. America triumphs and you surrender?"

"Oh yes, Mistress Bella!"

"Good girl. Now bed, we have Berlin in the morning."

No mention was made of my orgasm. I understood.