I will begin with explaining that there is nothing extraordinary about me. I was born into a modestly wealthy family of a reasonable social class. Having lost my parents rather early in life, I was shipped off to my grandmother’s where an army of servants and sycophants could ensure my proper education.
In person, I am a tall woman with a dark look about me that has always ensued comparisons to gypsies or the fey. I am somewhat statuesque and have always maintained a wardrobe of jewel tones to highlight my coloring and figure. I matured rather earlier than most women; I have now learned and of course, am left to wonder if my early maturation had anything to do with the course of my life.
I am a courtesan. I make my living by providing pleasure to others. Arranging pleasure, in some instances. The lifespan of the professional-client relationship can be simple or complex, and neither has an accurate idea of how long it will endure. I have had clients come to my door swearing that this visit will be their first and last, only to become the most constant of regulars. Others come and make all sorts of promises about their longevity as my employer, and come only a few times. I have bragged in my more whimsical moments, that not a single client came only once. Double entandre intended.
My reign as a courtesan is rather different than most. As I mentioned above, I was born to wealth and title, using both to their most natural advantage. I have received a wonderful education, both in the classroom and boudoir. What I may have lacked in innocence or naivete, I tend to believe I have made up in tact and determination. None of these set me apart from my counterparts, of which there are many, other than the single solitary fact that my clientele is, and always has been, entirely female. Oh, there was one gentleman client, but when it is explained fully in context, I am sure most would agree that he belongs to a most special category of clients who were never lovers. That does happen, you know. Does that surprise you?
I remember the first time I learned that women could be responsible for their own pleasure. My Grandmother had been staying in London for the Season, leaving me in the capable hands of my new tutor. Eleanor was a woman of thirty, incredibly cultured and beautiful. She had traveled most of Europe and spoke several languages, which is presumably why my grandmother had hired her. Grandmother had also hoped that Eleanor’s worldly refinement would rub off on the very impressionable young woman that I was in my youth. Grandmother was correct in some fashion, as Eleanor most certainly rubbed off on me. Not exactly as expected, of course.
I had been lying in bed trying to fall asleep for hours before I decided to explore the house. Most of the servants had gone with Grandmother to London and so this rare opportunity was too good to resist. I was particularly interested in checking in on my new tutor, who had infatuated me from the first. Clad only in my nightgown, which was ridiculously childish for my age and figure, I made my way through the large country estate to the servants’ wing.
Creeping down the hallway, I was surprised to hear the sound of groans coming from Eleanor’s room. I opened the door a small way, just enough to see her beautiful body caught in the throes of passion, the fingers of both hands hidden between the folds of her cleft. She knelt on her bed in front of me, swaying and arching in passion. She finally climaxed and her naked body fell backward on to the bed, her legs open towards me. I was not so naïve as to be unfamiliar with the ways of sex. We did live in the country, giving me many opportunities to see animals mating. I had even watched an older cousin of mine on all fours in the barn, taking it from a stable hand in a most noisy fashion. My cousin had the same look and smell of passion as my dear tutor did that night.
I walked into the room, closing the door behind me, startling her. Being the fearless chit I have always been, I crossed to her bed and demanded that she show me how to do what she had just done or I would turn her over to the housekeeper. Instead of being upset, Eleanor seemed almost unsurprised to find me there. She sat up on her bed and watched my stubborn body tremble.
Eleanor smiled gently, spreading her legs even further apart.
“That won’t be necessary, Margaret. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” Eleanor let her hand trail down her breasts to her cleft. She opened the folds and lightly stroked the petals of her sex. “Have you ever touched yourself like this?”
“Yes,” I stared enraptured as her fingers disappeared into her vagina. “But not inside.”
“Oh, but inside is where it feels the nicest.”
“Can I do that?” I asked, watching as Eleanor continued to finger herself. My Grandmother, as women of her station had for eons, filled my head with all sorts of nonsense about sex. Most notable in these particular circumstances was the raising of my maidenhood to near biblical proportions and importance. I was firmly of the belief that were I to lose my virginity, Armageddon would surely occur.
