Orchidelirium Ch. 02

Himself buys off a hot jam tart, near enough to eat everyday... and shant even put it in her belly, Fred thought for the hundredth time in as many days. A real waste of a girl.

He regretted again that the doctor placed the recamier facing the study windows instead of the fireplace. Would have liked to watch that whole bit of filth, Fred lamented. Instead, he saw only the back of Osgoode's head as Jemima crouched down.

He could right guess, though. And the doctor's obscene groans were elicited by a perversion he had only seen in grimy pictures from back-alley pamphlets.

"Don't go thinking you'll do her any favours," Ruth had warned him. She saw the way her Fred looked at the girl... had done from the first minute she had stepped out of the hot bath after the foundling house.

Something else my two men share, she thought wryly.

If the doctor called for Jemima alone after tea, Ruth Hopkin would flounce downstairs and bury herself into kitchen aid, bossing around the cooks and boys to make sure things were just so.

She can't bear to imagine the goings-on upstairs, Fred knew.

But he certainly could.

And soon enough, the whimpers and groans from the good doctor's suites grew brazen and loud enough that one could hardly escape them.

Why not indulge, he decided. If his wife arrived in the kitchen with a sour look, it was Fred's signal to head upstairs and enjoy the sights and sounds of their employer taking privilege with his young nurse.

And so here he stood, with the dull pain of a workman's back, folded over to peer closely through a shilling hole and watch sweet Jemima change from her afternoon gown to a nursing coat.

Fred's fist worked around his cock, as he imagined replacing the doctor and taking the girl from behind. She surely needed it... needed a strong Whitechapel man to show her a good fucking. She would soon enough beg for it.

He watched Jemima strip off her stained gown. Her chemise was gone and her breasts stood free over her silk patterned corset.

She was a true commoner—of that he was sure. He had watched many a rich lady get bedded, and none of them had much if any interest. Jemima was different. She clearly wanted it.

She stood in the center of the room, kicking away her skirts. The firelight plainly revealed that she had nothing on beneath that thin underdress.

Who but a whore goes around with no bloomers at all, his mind sneered.

His cock was spitting mad, and he pumped it to the idea of having his way with this slattern, who needed it but good. Jemima bent over to collect the gown, and the cotton shift slid up.

Fred bit his lip at the sight of her wet puffy slit, swollen with unmet desire and gleaming with her juices. "Fuck if I won't have a go at that," he growled aloud.

He would push her to the ground, on her knees. Not here but downstairs, in the servants quarters where she deserved it, he thought. Not rising up to the doctor's floors like some kind of marquesa having a clinic visit. Maybe even take her out on the lawn for the garden boys to watch.

I'd ruin that sweet belly, she'd have a litter of pups around her, I'd fuck her so much. Such a waste.

He yanked his prick violently between his calloused fingers. The missus would still be down in the pantry about now. He knew he had a few minutes more before he could possibly be discovered—at least long as Jemima was up here.

Fred worked the tip, pulling the drool of his cock back over to lubricate the procedure. Need that soaking sweet cunny to dip it in. Or let her choke on this like she does her precious Doctor. He didn't get to watch the earlier activity but had heard it true enough. Only a whore knows those tricks.

Again she bent over, to stuff the sperm-stained dress into the cabinet, and his tongue lolled again at a glimpse of her naked slit covered with down, and her bubs rolling forward, trying to escape their prison.

It would almost be worth the conviction, to just take her and risk the charges, he wondered. To split open that sweetness.

Ah—ah yes. His favorite part came next—she went behind the corner screen and squatted over the pot. He flipped his ear to the hole, straining to hear the sweet stream tinkling the porcelain. Fred let a tiny groan slip out, as he imagined her on her haunches, dress gathered up, making water over his rigid prick. He would lay on his back in the doctor's flower garden, and let the doctor's whore pleasure him...

(Dear Reader, here was the point at his weekly Peeping Tom sessions in which Fred would decide whether to finish off, spending hot semen over thick dirty fingers, letting it pool on the floor for the cleaning maid to manage in the morning.

Or to keep it in, and take it down to his tired missus after dinner—closing his eyes against the sight of her sleeping cap and pendulous paps, pretending instead to be interfering with the young nurse in her maiden bed.)

Jemima fastened her white frock. It was modest—a full-sleeved, high-necked working dress designed to protect both patient and attendant. She dabbed a flannel in the water basin and wiped her mouth and chin before examining herself finally in the looking glass.

"Hopkin will never suspect," she said smugly to her reflection.

This one will, Fred retorted in his mind.

Ablutions completed, she looked up from the mirror in that instant (almost as if she had heard his thought, or could see through the hole in the study wall) and licked her rose-petal lips slowly, a long seductive swirl of the tongue.

He could not hold on, then, and Alfred Hopkin popped, shooting his lustful slime all over the wall and floor as her eyes looked into his and he wished for the hundredth time he could sink his cock to the hilt in the tight warm sheath of Jemima Brewer.