do.
Feel better now? Did you…? Of course you didn’t. Ladies don’t do such things, you’ve been taught, but if you dare to question your physician about a common thread woven into the fabric of our femininity, I daresay he’ll tell you it’s not uncommon for him to find milady’s hairpin stuck in her vulva. Yes, I’m talking about masturbation. Will you continue reading if I tell you I discovered my own vices to seek pleasure? I am aware ’tis a sin by the holy sisters, but the church and I have been on shaky ground since the night I denied my husband his connubial rights. So you can imagine how delighted I was to find illicit tomes in the library that alluded to mysterious items known as olisbos depicted on vase paintings in ancient Greece. These drawings of dildos left nothing to a woman’s imagination. Further investigation revealed these charming toys came from the magic of a shoemaker’s hand, his skill molding the wood then covering it with finely stitched padded leather.
Since I knew of no shoemaker in London who possessed such talent, I relied upon my own culinary skills with the vegetable variety. Unfortunately I found them messy, ill fitting and difficult to procure out of season (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
Feel better now? Did you…? Of course you didn’t. Ladies don’t do such things, you’ve been taught, but if you dare to question your physician about a common thread woven into the fabric of our femininity, I daresay he’ll tell you it’s not uncommon for him to find milady’s hairpin stuck in her vulva. Yes, I’m talking about masturbation. Will you continue reading if I tell you I discovered my own vices to seek pleasure? I am aware ’tis a sin by the holy sisters, but the church and I have been on shaky ground since the night I denied my husband his connubial rights. So you can imagine how delighted I was to find illicit tomes in the library that alluded to mysterious items known as olisbos depicted on vase paintings in ancient Greece. These drawings of dildos left nothing to a woman’s imagination. Further investigation revealed these charming toys came from the magic of a shoemaker’s hand, his skill molding the wood then covering it with finely stitched padded leather.
Since I knew of no shoemaker in London who possessed such talent, I relied upon my own culinary skills with the vegetable variety. Unfortunately I found them messy, ill fitting and difficult to procure out of season (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
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