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 solidmahogany 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
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 solidmahogany 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
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