Dear Betsy

Dear Betsy,

I have done something terrible. I'm not exactly sure how it will be terrible, but which ever way it turns out I know that terror will follow.

As you know (as everyone knows by now) my reaction was purely instinctive and of course immediate. What you may not know is how much less than immediate it actually was. I knew the girl for about three months prior to her demise (I seem to recall you commented on my new found vitality in the bedroom and, as you rightly surmised, it was due to my new mistress). A little chit of a thing she was, tomboyish even. Howthorpe was always goading me about her manish good looks, which, as you are aware, are where certain of my tendencies lay.

Perhaps I had best start from the beginning.

You may or may not be aware of the phrase "six degrees of separation". In today's modern world it seems, what with steam ships, railway engines, dirigibles and the like, each and every one of us is merely six friendships away from every other person in the modern world. (not including of course the Africas or our Oriental friends) By way of explanation let me give you this example.

I have never met your mother's friend Elise Beauchamp (I have had certain investigations made by the way and it seems my first assumptions were entirely correct concerning her family) But this Elise creature has, by dint of my own maneuvering, never actually met neither myself nor you. So from her to your mother, on to you and thence to myself is four degrees. Now I have quite regular if cumbersome conversation by way of telegraph and letter and have met on at least four state occasions Prince Hadjit Saheem, another degree, and the Prince (a wonderful jovial chap with a whole host of amusing stories about his estate set in the darker forests of Ranjipoor) has the acquaintance of one extraordinary chap who goes by the name of Marachaivo Machiavelli (who claims Nicollo as direct antecedent).

So there you have your six degrees, Elise Beauchamp to Marachaivo Machiavelli, neither of whom (I presume) has met the other but are none-the-less merely five handshakes away, across the known world.

And how, you may ask, does this have any bearing on my own imminent destruction at the gallows on Tuesday week? As it happens, a great deal.

Georgie Lane, that poor unfortunate who met her ultimate fate at my own hands, came into my life some four short months ago. She was a tempestuous lover, enjoying variance such as I have never before laid eyes upon, willing and more often promoting greater debauches amongst our company than heretofore witnessed, by myself or any of my comrades (including Paul and John who I know you have sampled for your own pleasures)

I remember as clearly as yesterday that night of the twentieth (you remember when you were visiting with George and he had persuaded you to embroidery rather than the tawse he had promised) I know how much you enjoy these stories so I will enliven this narrative with some few descriptions as may lift your spirits before I must confess that terror I have wrought.

The evening of the twentieth was to be a Roundhouse, as previously declared and to that end we each were to bring along an acquaintance rather than a common seamstress. (It strikes me with some amusement now that George did actually have you for a seamstress whilst the fellows and I had eschewed them for that night) Be that as it may.

I had long been entertaining the notion that perhaps Betty Hardcastle, now that she has been in her majority (such as it is) for some six months, might benefit from having her bastions, if not broached then at the very least secured into some kind of service. I had high hopes that her battlements would not prove insurmountable.

I am of the opinion that little Betty was actually awaiting her birthday in order that she may bloom. For bloom she has, and in a mere handful of months. Her chests have grown seemingly overnight as it were and her delicious bottom and hips widened considerably, so much so that I think you would be overawed were you to meet with her at this time after how long? Two years since?

After some considerable persuasion on my part (not with her parents you understand, who were only too willing to see their daughter introduced into our society) little Betty reluctantly agreed to accompany me to our monthly gathering, where naturally as introduction, the men at the table played fondly and with little reticence amongst the clothing of the serving maids.

As you may recall from your own introduction there was some shock and some slight indignation on the part of one or two of our lady guests, as their colour heightened and they attempted to ignore or rise above such ribaldry. But naturally by the middle of the fowl course (pheasant if I remember aright) all but one of our female company could be seen to be in some form of mild arousal. (Extreme in the case of at least three girls who were taking an enthusiastic part in the now saucy goings on.)

Then it was time for the meat. The conversation at this point, as planned, was now concerned almost entirely with bedroom matters and fully half of our guests admitted to having no previous knowledge of such whilst half of the rest had only witnessed rather than partaken of any sexual matters whatsoever. Those three girls that had taken an interest in the underthings of the wenches were, to a man, farmer's daughters and had the build and ruddiness of complexion so associated. Being daily close to nature had made them closer to nature than our other city raised girls and it was these three that took an active lead when the meat was served. And one particular, but not particular girl even before the plates had been cleared.

I seem to recall that it was you yourself that introduced the present configuration of the meat course, having the maids take wall spaces and having boys do the serving at this time. I shall take this opportunity to once again praise your female prescience as to the timing and effect of this happy, albeit contrived, circumstance.

As I have said, those three farmer's daughters were very willing parties to the many leads and suggestions of their gentlemen sponsors, taking great delight it seemed, I may say hunger, in their delight at a handful of maid servant's titty or a daring snatch of snatch, as the current saying has it. One of the ruddy daughters even took to slavering her palm with girl juice and quite deliberately making a show (to Paine seated opposite) of licking and sucking on each wet finger with an avid, it seemed unquenchable, appetite.

My own gaze, as you must well know, was centred always on the wenches' faces, for signal cues of pleasure. My vigilance that night was well rewarded. Before even the maids had cleared the previous course I had my trumpet (you may call it a bassoon but believe me, you would call it a piccolo if you had agreed to share Benjamin with me that other memorable night) as I say I had my trumpet in hand playing a well rehearsed solo beneath the table cloth. Certainly all my compatriots and at least four or five lady guests were well aware of my fingering exercise. And this before the meat!

Here was something with which you would have been delighted. Virginia, she of the stern countenance, dark ravishing eyes and darker hair, she whom you have delighted in attempting to trick, seduce and ravish since first you set eyes upon, it was she upon whom this grease-fingered farmer's daughter set her own sights. This next, which was what led me to pre-arousal, would have had you willingly stricken and prone under fat Alfonse (I see you shiver with disgust and feel your flesh crawl as you read the name).

Virginia found herself the seemingly willing target (a shock I know) to Irene's ( the farmer's daughter) ministering. As you have found to our pleasure and quick mockery and your own disappointment, Virginia whilst apparently oblivious to the source of any cock-thrust was cold to the softness of the female touch. Cold and dry. Not so to Irene.

As the Fowl course platters were removed, Virginia taking it upon herself to confine her duties to Irene's place at the long table, a silence descended upon the party, almost every eye eventually drawn to the look of concentration on the farm girl's face and the rapt dissociation lingering on Virginia's statue like visage.

Virginia was visibly trembling, the largely untouched pheasant on it's silver salver seeming to dance it's secret feathered dance, as it jiggled and jumped across her tight fisted hold of the plate. The ordinarily staid servant seemed to shrink by some inches as if her knees had buckled when she unexpectedly issued forth a trembling mew of obvious lust and thenceforward a rising moan guaranteed to harden the manliness of every spectator thereat.

Hancock (who was sponsoring Irene) leant forward at this point and reached for Virginia's skirts and raised them inch by careful inch into bunches in his hand. The effect was mesmeric. The skirts rose unbearably slowly, in the fashion of a stage curtain, revealing pallid, quavering knees and the gentlest rhythm of Irene's forearm rising and descending with delicate precision between Virginia's firm white thighs.

Jackson and his consort (Emily Buck I believe) were the very last to notice the performance and broke off their hasty selfish snoggery with a gasp as echo to Virginia's own when Irene's tender motion was raised apace.

The serving girl's eyes had reared into their sockets at this increase in pace, now showing only the whites like some ghoul. The silver platter weaved and bobbed in time with Virginia's hoarse breathing and threatened to tumble instantly.

Of course the whole assembly were quite agog, the gentlemen waiting for the inevitable crash of plate (which I know is what you await also) and the ladies the unobstructed view of skewered maidservant. (which would also have delighted you no doubt)

Hancock, with his usual artistry, timed the spectacle to perfection. On each leisurely thrust of Irene's arm, Hancock would raise the skirt hem a matter of an inch or two, following the wrist and revealing just how deeply the thrust was, without showing the actuality.

A rather sudden and shocking scrape of chair to one side of the table told me that (probably Essie, that slut with the pendulous bussoms) could take no more spectacle without some willing stiffening inside of her. I risked a glance and indeed it was Essie the under stairs girl, bottom rising vigorously and with both naked titties deeply ensconced each in still quite hot sautéed potatoes and creamed cabbage in their separate serving bowls, pounding with urgency onto the lap of Thomas. Obviously willing and probably wanting of the delights of the chamber on this night.

When I looked back, we could detect the long straightness of Virginia's nether hair obscuring Irene's forearm which was now coated with a glistening melt of lady grease and here is the point at which your delight would have been complete.

Hancock finally raised the skirt fully to Virginia's waist to show Irene's finger tips followed by the knuckle of each and then the palm and then even the wrist sink (or rise in this case) completely into Virginia's fulsome kitty. A prolonged howl issued forth from the maid's lips as she was fully impaled, seemingly to bear her entire weight on Irene's upthrust and then it happened.

I'm sure you remember the many and varied attempts (no fewer than seven on your own account) to send this most severe and stoic of women to the chamber. Not a drop splashed from the gallon tureen of soup when Alexander invaded her dry, from the rear without pre-amble or warning, neither scale nor fin misplaced as she served trout with Robert hanging from her nipple by his teeth and even the marvelous spectacle of Samuel and John each thrusting with abandon into her hot and dirty places, sandwiched between them, as she held a steaming pudding above her head without so much as a tremble.

But now (I'm sure you'll wish you were there as witness) Virginia roared her fulfillment at Irene's hand and, greeted with a rousing cheer from the assembled, actually dropped the silver platter with it's burden whereupon three of the menfolk rushed to carry her, still wailing to the chamber.

As I am quite sure that you will curse my self interest I both apologise to and forgive you. I am unable to bring you any keenly awaited details whatsoever about Virginia's adventures in the chamber.

When the cheering had quieted somewhat and the gentlemen and guests had resumed their seats to explain in some detail the consequence of Virginia's (un)fortunate mishap, we finally came around to the meat course.

The buttoned breeks which you designed for this particular entertainment came into their own (as usual) at this time. As you know, the spoilage of menservants at the house is quite remarkable and you will, no doubt, be envious to hear that for this evening we had a wholly new stable of servingboys with which to delight our lady guests. Unbelievable as it may seem, fully one third of the new intake were virginal and the whole assemblage of them virginal in that particular way which provides entertainment for some three or four of our company myself included.

When the servingmen took the place of the wenches, it was immediately apparent that they were, without exception, aware of not only their specific duties but also ready and able to assume their especial duties.

No sooner had they taken their various places, between each gentleman and his lady guest, than any number of previously embarrassed eyes and indeed lap held fingers were finding their way to the obvious and some quite remarkable appendages in concealed display at very handily placed shoulder height.

Indeed, another of the farm girl's hands (Emma I think) immediately went to the buttons of the breeks at her side in order to take a first hand at the available meat. With the flap down and far less than flaccid member given air, Emma immediately contrived to envelop the entire thing between her lips and teeth. Her sponsor, Andrew, took this as implicit invitation and without so much as a by your leave, pulled her to a bending stance, whipped out his own stick, and made of her a spit-roast to be greeted by roars and calls of approval from all at the table.

To the embarrassment and regret of Josiah, the organiser of the event, one of the new staff unfortunately over stepped his mark and with arrogance and less than civil behaviour undid the buttons of his own clout and proceeded to press his advances onto Charlotte Heydal. The silly girl merely opened her mouth and began sucking with some enthusiasm on the proffered object whereupon two of the liveried butlers extracted the new man and dragged him away with pinioned arms by the length of his indiscretion to the chamber. More fortunately this was the only faux pas of an otherwise delightful evening.

Eventually the gentlemen had enjoyed their meat course (Venison if memory serves) and the lady guests had all enjoyed their own with varying degrees of trepidation and reluctance but at the end all had partaken.

Finally the sweet course was to be served. For only the second time in my memory each and every gentlemen got the sweet of his first choice. There were no clashes, no arguments, no envious glances. Each gentleman chose his particular favourite of the assembled guests and indulged himself pleasantly with that most intoxicating wine known to man. You have of course witnessed the scene yourself many times, ladies upon cushions upon the table with legs akimbo in front of each gentleman delivering of herself that nectar.

This, of course, is how I came to be acquainted with Georgie Lane. This then, I was to learn, was the fourth handshake. The fifth degree.

You have no doubt seen photographic likenesses of Miss Lane and I can assure you that her beauty is no less than that captured by the silver nitrate than it is in the flesh. This next, considering the news sheet coverage of the trial and subsequent sentence may be of some surprise.

At the table, for the sweet course, fresh and as inviting as morning dew to a desert crossed nomad sat our plumptious requisite. Glancing around I noted: plump duff, hair pie, shaved chick, slits with sauce, goulash of gash- I apologise, I was taken away with the remembrance.

As you are aware Betsy, I much prefer to take my pudding en prive, by the simple expedient of snuffling through underclothing like a pig after truffles. Imagine my surprise and delight then (and I am imagining your own when you read this next) when after I had left a silvered trail of kisses, tiny nibbles and slavering tongue along her smooth alabaster thighs, I worked my way around the pudenda (after a quick gasp inducing flick of the anal cavity) and on reaching for the apex of her cunny I encountered not the fount of sweetness I had expected but rather a roll of banana surprise. And what a surprise. My head and shoulders reacted of their own accord and let in the light of the dining room before I recovered my senses enough to cease my upward leap in order that this "lady's" blushes be spared by any ungallant and gauche act of my own.

Manners and my libido overcame my first shock and I stood there bent over this Georgie's crotch examining my prize. This apparent anomaly required some investigation and with great deliberation I extricated myself from beneath the folds of her (or his) dresses keeping her secret undiscovered to the present company and raised my eyes to lock her gaze in silent question. She merely lifted the corners of her full lips in an inviting smile.

Naturally my fingers sought her bodice and knowing I would thereby give the game away I expected Miss Georgie Lane to stay my hands. To my utter astonishment she simply smiled all the wider. Was she depending on the kindness of this stranger, relying on my gentlemanly behaviour to not betray her counterfeit? Her chests from this vantage certainly seemed womanly as they had seemed all through the previous evening. Flushing with amour, heaving when petted and bouncing with laughter. To my mind no amount of sticking tape or bandaging could produce this effect even on one less slim than the lady before me.

You will no doubt recall our several occasional visits to the theatre and that particular house in that specific town when we both took an interest in those "secret" ladies at that time. Do you recall Gertrude Grey? We neither of us could say one way or the other about 'her' But I will tell you now, even Gertrude's expertise paled into insignificance, yes, even those glorious counterweights were nothing compared to our Georgie's delightful bosom.

What I now took to be some skilful artistic decoration, to wit: the areolae of Georgie's 'breasts', the very edge of which were tastefully apparent to the naked eye I determined to investigate. As the flat palms of both my hands caressed along the contours of her hips, waist and torso, her smile became somewhat challenging. I was intrigued beyond measure at each further upward turn of her lips, now showing very dainty pearl white teeth, which she snapped at me as I reached nearer my goal.

To show this impossible girl my intent, whether female or no, I swiftly placed my hands on the tops of her thighs, whilst at the same moment releasing my rod from its delightful frotting place beneath the edge of the dining table, which quite made me gasp with painful pleasure, as I dragged her bottom by main force to the very edge of the linen cloth, whereupon I poked it delicately but with deliberation, at the only hole available.

You can imagine my delight then, when Georgie, upon perceiving my intent, instead of attempting to scuttle backwards, which is nearly always tiresome and leads to placement in the chamber, for which on this night my interests were something more than jaded, when she felt my path she stuck the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth, biting downwards, and actually pushed towards me, impressing the rounded point of my thrust almost to insinuation.