Memoir of a Lady Pt. 02: Velvet Tips

It is a truth universally acknowledged that woman in possession of an income of £30,000 a year and three estates is esteemed as a beauty - her figures make it so. That I was also comely meant that I was in high demand. A period of mourning saved me for a year from the worst of it, but after that the queue was like one for the most fashionable play. Come, see Lady Frances and woo her. It was a play in three acts. Confess your love; court her; be told, diplomatically, to fuck off. Within a year I had the part off to perfection.

From my father I'd inherited a love of the old Restoration comedies, and fancied myself a Lady Wishfort - but what I wanted was a wet cunny to play with. There Fanny, my maid, came in useful. We would tip the velvet several times a week, and she became my sweet girl.

We had no need of a truncheon, we could use our fingers and tongues to open our cunnys, and when we rubbed them together, the feeling made us both moan. We'd lick, suck and rub till dawn some nights, and I never was so happy as with my sweet Fanny attending my needs. She had a delightful way of using her tongue to push my little love button upwards, which would make me moan far more than anything a man ever did to me. As my juices trickled into her mouth, she would use her fingers to fill my cunt.

Thus occupied, we could pass the night away. My little Nug, as I called Fanny, would rub her titties against mine until our nipples ached with it. I would clutch her cunny with my hand, curling my fingers into her gooey wetness and finger-fuck her until her love juices would spurt onto me. I'd take the little Nug to me, and have her service me, her fingers in my cunt until I could stand no more and the sting of pleasure would shoot through me.

They say all good things come to an end, and so did this Sapphist idyll when my second George hove into view. Older men are on the whole easier for a lady of my sort to manage; or so I have found. JJ and GE were both in their fifties, and preferred boys but needed a mask, and my second George Vernon, or GV as he preferred to be called, was just sixty when we tied the knot, and past the need to shoot his seed.

I explained to Fanny, who came with me to his ancestral pile at High Wick Court, that repelling the borders had become a chore. It was not unknown for a "gentleman" to force himself on a lady and then, if she fell for a brat, force her to marry. I wanted that least of all. GV was an example of what I always tell my neices, "size matters." The size in question being that of his estate, and GV's was a big one. He was rich, his father was an Archbishop, and he was a gentleman. On our wedding night he explained that as his second wife my duties were to support his political ambitions for a peerage. As he was, he said, tired by the exertions of the day, he would not be requiring my services in the marriage bed; he never did.

Such a darling. I kissed him goodnight and wandered back to my own chamber - where little Fanny was waiting. My third wedding night was the most satisfactory of them all to that point, as it was largely occupied by Fanny between my thighs lavering my cunny with her skilful tongue.

GV was a decent old stick. He needed a hostess and I was the one with the mostest. He became "Father of the House" in 1851, which required a deal of entertaining. Our town house in Grosvenor Gardens became one of the great foci of political and social life, and successive Prime Ministers from Lord Derby, through Lord John Russell to Lord Palmerston, graced my dining and drawing rooms.

This gave George far more pleasure than anything I could have done in the bedroom, and when he complimented me on becoming the "political hostess of the day," it gave me a great deal of pleasure. He kept me in the style to which I had become accustomed, and in due course I was able, as I shall tell in a moment, to get his that peerage he wanted so badly. But to understand that, a word about the politics of the day is necessary.

My nieces seem to imagine that being a political hostess consisted of presiding over political arguments between politicians of opposing parties, but that was seldom the case, even when that very naughty man Disraeli dined. He could no more keep a witty but barbed sentiment to himself than he could keep a hot coal in his mouth, but at dinner he liked to entertain, and did so.

I liked the old Jew. Unlike most men, he set out to charm women. I got the impression he actually liked our sex, and we responded by liking his company. The Queen found him frightfully amusing and just loved the way he flattered her. To listen to him, you'd have thought she was a cross between Helen of Troy and Homer, instead of a dumpy hausfrau with the literary talent of a puddle. "Dizzy," as she called him, was a firm favourite, despite being as reliable as a broken watch (he was right twice a day).

The other charmer was the Prime Minister for most of the decade after 1855 - Palmerston, or "Pam," as they called him. Pam also loved women, but he did it literally - and very physically. There was not a lot of use getting left with him at the end of the evening unless you intended to part your legs and let him pour his pearly shower in your cunny. He was particularly partial to taking one over the billiard table, arse up. It was that, ironically given my preferences, which allowed me to land GV his place in the House of Lords. Used to that position from JJ and GE, I gave in to his importunings one night in the billiard room - my one non-sapphic experience.

His method was direct. Loitering about in the gazebo was the signal that a lady was willing to play the dollymop; ladies of virtue retired early for Church. The old goat approached me with a huge smile and wandering hands.

"You've given us a splendid supper m'dear, let's go for a walk down cock lane. I take it you're open and willing m'dear?"

It wasn't the most subtle approach, but he was the Prime Minister and had, it was said, fucked every attractive aristo in London. He also, rumour had it, took rejection badly, and GV was after a peerage. What's a girl to do? In this instance, her duty, so I smiled sweetly and replied:

"Why my Lord, my cloven inlet would welcome a visitor."

"Get those skirts up Madam and let me at you!"

I suddenly felt like I was in a military campaign, but obliged the old boy.

Once bent over the table, he lifted my skirts and lowered my drawers.

As his hands explored my exposed arse, I could feel my cunny grow wet, and as he parted my arse cheeks to expose my back garden, I felt him press between my lips.

"Oh my Lord!"

That was not so much an imprecation of God, as an expression of the size of his weapon. I'd swear as he swived me from the back that there was a good twelve inches of the thing. He was a generous man and he eased his tree trunk of a cock slowly and surprising pleasantly into me.

My poor cunny felt as though it was being stuffed with something too large for it. It stretched me, and filled me and rubbed me delightfully in places others rarely reached.

"You've a nice tight cunt there milady, thrust your arse back, there's a good girl. You're just another whore under it, aren't you?"

"Oh, oh fuck milord, yes, oh fuck, another nasty dollymop, bunt me, oh fuck, yes milord!"

It was not just that he was not bad for a man in his early seventies, it was that he was a thoroughly good fuck for a man of any age. I felt as though my arse cheeks were turning red as he spanked me and fucked me hard. He had unusually large balls which slammed against me as he pushed deep into my cunt.

"Fuck milady, you're more a Toffer than a Bunter!" He grunted.

Well if I was going to be called a whore, I'd rather have been the high class one than the low class Bunter. By this stage my cloven inlet felt split in twain, and it was all I could do not to scream as he emptied his mighty engine into me. As he pulled away, wiping himself on my underskirt, I was still moaning. There should, I thought, be an equivalent release for a lady when she was with a man; but I could remedy that.

As I pulled my drawers up I felt a soggy mess between my legs; my hairs would be matted with his seed. God, I hoped he'd not knocked me up. With a quick smack on my arse, he thanked me and departed upstairs, no doubt to tup Lady Palmerston,

As I got to my room, dear Fanny was there, so I set her to work undressing me, and once I was nude, she gathered the Palmerstonian harvest from between my thighs. She kissed me and we shared his gift. What a couple of depraved harlots we were. Little does Fortescue know it, but he's fucked the cunt fucked by the cock of the man who fucked the woman fucked by the great Duke of Wellington himself, Why it almost makes me feel nostalgic.

Of course the old whoremaster passed as he would have wanted, swiving a serving wench over the billiard table at his town house. They don't make them like that any more.

GV got his peerage, but gradually declined into decrepitude, and he passed to whatever eternal reward awaited him on my forty-third birthday in 1864. If I'd been a rich widow with the demise of the last George, I was an obscenely wealthy one now. Leaving High Wick and the Midlands of England for ever, I decided to take up residence at Turnberry Pike.

I was Mistress of all I surveyed. Estates in Somerset and Hampshire kept me well supplied with funds, and Turnberry became what it had been in the days of its founder, Horatio Walpole, a Gothick fantasy house on the banks of the Thames. But where he'd attracted every gal-boy in London, I attracted the best politicians - and their ladies.

It seemed as though I had stumbled upon a secret. Or rather, that Fanny and myself had. Bunters and Toffers aside, it is hard to convey now how little we knew about ourselves. Our very clothes seemed designed to make us strangers to our own bodies, and for all the names we had for our lady parts, it was a rare bird who knew how to use them. I was that rare bird.

The great secret lay between our thighs, near the top of the cunny. There, if one hunted amidst the forest, one found the love button. Noticing the effect that Fanny licking it had on me, I tried it on her, with instantaneous and similar effects. That, it seemed, was our equivalent of what men got with their release; but who knew? I did.

It transpired that there was value in such knowledge. When the young lady Salisbury visited just after GV was laid to rest, we found ourselves in the garden talking of old husbands - hers was in his seventies.

"But what, darling Frances, is one to do? You've had three of them. Is it immodest of my to want some pleasure from tupping?"

I explained it was perfectly natural, but that there were ways one could obtain such pleasure oneself - and with better results.

That was how she found herself in my bed chamber one Friday night after dinner.

Unrigged, just in our underclothes, I persuaded her to let me remove her drawers. With the aid of a mirror, I showed her where her love button was. As she peered at it, I began to caress it, pushing it gently from one side to the other. Her arousal was instantaneous. Taking one of the candles, I showed her how to insert it into her wetness, and pushing it in and pulling it out until she squelched, I continued to rub the love button.

Wondering whether she would like it, I unlaced her chemise and began to kiss her titties, taking the nipples into my mouth and sucking harder and harder as I rogered her sweet tight cunt.

When her blessed release came, it was as Noah's great flood, and I found my underwear soaked with her juices.

"Oh my goodness Frances, that is so much better than with a man?"

I laughed and explained how she could do the same to me. Gingerly she found and touched my love button, and before long I too was candled. My cunt exploded as violently, after which we fell together as lovers, kissing and cuddling.

"Oh Frances, this feels so good," she said as we lay together.

"Oh Kate, it is, and we can have this whenever we like."

And so we did. Others followed in her wake. So it was that while Turnberry Pike heaved with political intrigue by day, Sapphic passion flowed alongside the more usual fucking by night. What's a girl to do? Tip the velvet was my answer.

That was all very well, and at last I had found what I needed for pleasure, but this did not serve business. I liked politics and power, but as a woman I could neither stand for parliament nor sit in the Lords. Damned useless system. It was, as I told darling Kate Salisbury in post-orgasmic bliss, time for me to find a husband who would be my proxy in politics. That was where dear Fortesque came in.