(unless I was able to locate a greenhouse that cultivated various Mesopotamian delights). I must admit, that with the help of a natural implement, I reached orgasm in less time than it took to brew a proper cup of tea, something I’ve learned to appreciate on cold English mornings. It was the cold English nights that left me fretting about on my bedsheets, a rising heat making me perspire despite the chill, a need to capture intimacy in my life even if it wasn’t with a man (taking a female lover wasn’t practical since I could trust no one in my social circle. Not even you, dear lady reader).
I amused myself by adapting the principles of a children’s game and devising a word square with the various Latin words for clitoris: virga (twig), mania (madness), dulcedo amoris (sweetness of love), tentigo (lust) and more. When I ran out of Latin words, I went in search of another dictionary and, to my delight, I found a discarded dildo in the spanking room. (I admit, the door was open and I peeked inside.) After making sure the snoopy housekeeper wasn’t watching me, I hid it under my skirts and took it back to my rooms. I was tempted to make use of it in the privacy of my boudoir, burying my loneliness under layers of silken sheets while allowing my unabated curiosity free rein to insert it inside me and feel its heat radiating through me. I’m sorry to say that after inspecting the dildo at a closer range, I returned it. It became apparent to me no amount of washing or scrubbing could purify away the lingering scent of its previous owner.
I didn’t let that stop me from continuing my search for self-gratification and from imagining what delights such an implement could bring to me. A pleasure so exquisite that a secret longing deep in my belly made me shiver with anticipation. That indefinable hunger drove me to explore other means to find satisfaction, though I hesitate to share it with you if you’ve turned pale and are experiencing indigestion because of the indelicate subject matter. Skip over these next few pages if you must, but I’ll not deny these enticing thoughts ran through my mind on many a lonely day.
Such as today. Desiring not to be disturbed, I closed the curtains and locked the door to my rooms before I opened the polished wooden box lined with red velvet. Sitting next to my china ring stand shaped like a tiny tree with willowy branches, the dark walnut box held the jewels James had given me on our wedding day, as propriety dictated. Family heirlooms including a garnet necklace surrounded by stars, a diamond brooch with a large ruby in the center and a turquoise bracelet set off with diamonds. Cold stones given with a cold heart.
The box contained another jewel. One I enjoyed wearing above all others. Sleek, round and bulbous. The energy oozing from it when I slipped it inside me awakened my soul with a gentle vibration I could only describe as magic.
My dildo.
Tempering my need for physical release with practicality, a fortnight ago I decided to forgo my embarrassment regarding my predicament and embarked on a secret shopping trip. Armed with an address I found scribbled in the back of a gentleman’s magazine I removed from the town house library, I sought out a certain shop on Holywell Street not far from Waterloo Bridge. A seedy establishment selling pornographic pamphlets as well as male enhancements and sexual aids. There I found the perfect item to assuage my hunger.
A dildo made of rubber with the wistful moniker the Widow’s Comforter.
Taking it home wrapped in plain brown paper, I made quick use of it, its shape and size becoming as familiar to me as a lover’s touch. So it was no surprise I found need of its heated comfort on this cold February morning. I caressed its tip nestled among the jewels, warming it with my fingertips. Then I sucked in my breath, begging my body not to betray me with a sudden rush of heat to my pubic region. Tightly laced and sweating, I couldn’t hold back my need any longer. I gave in to temptation, seeking the solace of the secret shadowy space behind the pearl-inlayed dressing screen in my bedroom. Hiking up my skirts, the rustling whispers of silk filling my ears with enchantment, I found the slit in my pantaloons and slid the love instrument inside me, my body closing around its rubbery thickness. With familiar dexterity, I guided the shaft in and out of me in time to a silent rhythm in my head. I groaned, pressing the dildo against the walls of my throbbing flesh hot with my juices again and again. Moving my hips, my musings became so strong I couldn’t stop myself. My breath quickened, my muscles deep inside me contracted, holding tight around the illusion of a hard penis inside me, begging for that delicious instant of release. If you’ve indulged in such an activity then you were rewarded as I was with powerful, gut-wrenching orgasms. Lingering for what seemed like hours, days, my pubic muscles experiencing the most delicious spasms…
But the satisfaction I found was not to last. After two weeks of errant use, the lack of an emotional connection became so unappealing to me I considered taking a lover. I immediately tossed the idea into the rubbish. No doubt such an affair would be discovered, since the household staff here and at Braystone House amuse themselves by spying at us through holes bored through the wainscoting on walls and solid mahogany doors. (If you don’t believe me, check your walls and doors before you indulge in a tryst when your husband is out of town.) I’ve heard many servants line their pockets with guineas by becoming “witnesses” in adultery trials, acting out what they’ve seen for the judge, complete with moans and compromising positions. Within days, the whole sordid mess is published in scandal sheets and licentious gentleman’s magazines.
I shivered at the thought. I relished my privacy, not to mention how distasteful the idea was of shaming my family with so thoroughly a bourgeois faux pas. Social mores notwithstanding, I harbored a deep-seated resentment that while my husband indulged in appeasing his salacious sexual appetite, I remained sensually starved. It was disconcerting at best to believe I would spend the rest of my life writhing under the probing of my own fingers and nothing more. Sometimes my craving for the connection of flesh on flesh was so daunting, I pulled up my chemise and cupped the firmness of my breasts in my hands, rubbed my nipples and stroked the tender skin on the insides of my thighs. I wanted so to be touched, caressed, anything over the cold deadness of the rubber phallus.
I sought an outlet for my loneliness and found it in the world of society, where I exuded a flaunting of ego I found so satisfying. At home, I was the girl with the empty dance card, my views scoffed at, my mind ignored. Here in London I was Lady Carlton, a member of the peerage, albeit through marriage, who could trace their lineage back to the first duke of Braystone. He was a brave ancestor of my husband who distinguished himself in battle with King Charles II, then fought alongside his sovereign on an expedition to Scotland, where he sacrificed his own life so Charles could escape.
Unfortunately, my husband, James, possessed none of the valor of his forebear nor the nihilistic intolerance for the wrongs done to humankind. He had no principles I was aware of and swayed so far from the model of moral rectitude, I dared not challenge him for fear of reprisal of a salacious nature. Yet in spite of or because of his failings—I’m not sure which—he entertained a lively and fashionable existence in London drawing rooms and clubs.
Which meant I was also included in the invitations.
What can I say? I reveled in the glitter and elegance, the youthful splendor, the gaiety, the daring subterfuge, the arts and the opera. I forged my path with aristocratic arrogance and made a place for myself in British society. And that included fashion. I’ve always loved color and developed a sense of how to use its pure, uncomplicated beauty to enhance what I saw as my shortcomings: my tall body and long face. I used simple diagonal lines in the clothes I wore to create an illusion of prettiness, draping myself in hues of rose, apricot and blue to create the illusion of a creature beautiful and mysterious.
I nurtured my instinctual attraction to lace and silk with frequent trips to the House of Worth in Paris, as well as art galleries and museums, to achieve a new level of refined smartness. My unique sense of taste and fashion matured like a ripening fruit, my raw talent at the core sweetening my outer skin with a prettiness I’d never felt before, whether I was tipping my ivory lace parasol at a cocky angle while flirting with Lord—at a garden party or slipping on my
