I am a man haunted. Driven to the depths of despair and raised to the heights of ecstasy by that girl: a slim young creature who bewitched me and made me half crazy as I careened between fierce lust for her and bitter remorse for what I subjected her to.
It was not always this way. For most of my life I was the soul of dignity, a true gentleman. My life was a tranquil sea, roiled neither by triumph nor tragedy.
But then I met her. If there is one true love for a man, then perhaps there is, as well, one true enchantress who alone among women can wreck his peace and bring out the devil in him. For me, it was that girl.
I first met her just over a year ago, on a dull rainy day in October 1887; the autumn of the year, the autumn of my life. My wife of 25 years, Irene, had passed away some four years earlier. I had settled into the comfortable life of a middle-aged widower who wore his 52 years well.
I lived in a brownstone in a fashionable area of the Upper West side, enjoying my career as an associate editor for Harper’s Magazine. When the muse visited, I occasionally contributed articles and poetry of my own.
I had passed that quiet morning in my library, enjoying a briar pipe as I edited articles and caught up with correspondence. It would prove to be the last truly peaceful day of my life.
A knock on the door interrupted me. After a “Yes?” my housemaid Miss Winston entered. At her side was a young woman.
“Mr. Jennings, I’ve a young lady here applying for the maid-of-all-work position we have open. Do you have time, sir, to speak to her?”
“Yes, I suppose.” I rose from my desk and approached the two. Miss Winston was a widow in her late 30s who had been in my employ for five years. She was a dutiful servant, although her habit of stuttering made her painfully shy.
“Sir,” she said tremulously, “may I present Miss Siobhán Flynn. Siobhán, this Mr. Herbert Jennings, the master of the house.”
With a nervous smile, the girl managed an awkward curtsy, saying, “Very nice t’ meet ye, sir.” Her Irish brogue was thick but nonetheless pleasing to the ear.
“My pleasure, Miss Flynn. Has Miss Winston advised you of your duties as maid-of-all-work?”
“Yes sir, she has,” Siobhán replied.
As we spoke, my eyes roamed over the girl, seeing her scuffed boots; a rough wool dress and cloak of inferior quality; a thick mass of oily dark tresses, greatly in need of a good washing.
Only in the girl’s face did I find beauty. She had luminous eyes, rich green and with the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a woman. Her skin was soft and radiant, the pure cream of her complexion becoming a most pleasing rose hue coloring her cheeks. Yes, I thought, here is a true daughter of Eire; an uncouth girl from the wilds of County Mayo perhaps.
“Tell me, what is your previous experience? Your qualifications?”
Miss Winston spoke first, saying, “She has no experience, I’m afraid, sir.” Now occasionally stuttering, the woman went on, “Siobhán is the granddaughter of the Casey’s, our greengrocers. She came over here in ’81, and has worked for them. She .. she didn’t get along well with some of the customers, so I was hoping you’d give her a chance to learn to be a maid.”
“I see.” I gazed at Siobhán, who returned my look impassively. Yet I sensed a fiery spirit beneath her calm exterior. And oddly enough, that she was judging me every bit as much as I her. Even then, some part of me hoped that the little sylph would approve of the older man before her, his russet hair turning gray along the sides.
The tart’s lively eyes were so distracting that I found it necessary to look out the window. “Well, this is a live-in position, Siobhán, with your quarters in the attic. You will be on duty from six in the morning to ten at night, with two and a half hours for meals and another two hours in the afternoon to attend to personal needs.”
“Yes sir.”
“You will assist my cook Ella with meal preparation, will learn to serve tea, and to iron the newspapers. And of course you will never speak to guests unless spoken to, and only then to say yes sir or yes madam.”
“Yes sir.”
Now came an awkward pause. “Siobhán, would you please wait in the parlor. I need to speak to Miss Winston in private.”
“Yes sir,” she replied, then murmured words in a different language to Miss Winston.
“Wait just a moment,” I said with some asperity. “Miss Winston, you speak Gaelic, do you not?”
“Yes sir, I do. My mother’s family is Irish.”
“Listen, both of you, there will be no Gaelic spoken in this household; nothing said that I as your master cannot understand. Is that clear?”
With eyes cast down, both women spoke as one. “Yes sir.”
After the girl had left the room, I relit my pipe. “Miss Winston, that girl seems little more than an alley cat. Can you not find someone better? And I’d prefer a younger girl. Fifteen or so, as was Dora. This little wench will run off to marry some lout within the year.”
“Sir, she is rough around the edges, but I’ll do my best to train her. She’s energetic and is willing to work hard. She’s only turned eighteen, and will give many good years of service if treated well. The Casey’s begged me to offer her to you. She desperately needs the money.”
“Something about her bothers me. You know how much I value a quiet, well-run household.”
“P..p..p..please sir, I’ll do my best to make sure she satisfies you!”
“Very well. But for heaven’s sake clean her up! Give her a good bath; then let me see what she looks like in uniform.”
Ah, I can only smile ruefully as I look back upon that morning! How ironic that I did not want that girl in my house; and that I actually expected my life to be serene even after I had met her!
I dismissed my housemaid, and shortly after dressed for lunch at my club. After making several social calls in the afternoon, I returned home at four. The clouds had lowered again, promising more rain.
Miss Winston approached me in her usual state, as jittery as a sparrow. “Sir, I laid in a fire in your library. Would it please you to take some tea there?”
“Yes, thanks, that would be most welcome.”
I settled at my desk and was looking over a manuscript when a figure approached. I glanced up, and it was Siobhán. She smiled nervously, saying, “Sir, I have yer tea for ye.”
I think perhaps in some way I was lost then, at the very moment I looked upon her. She was now well-scrubbed, a rich mane of raven hair spilling out from her maid’s mobcap. She was wearing a black floor-length broadcloth uniform and a white apron. A stand up collar enclosed the girl’s long neck.
As any man would do, my eyes were drawn to Siobhán’s chest, where the fabric was stretched to the limit by her full bosom. Nature had chosen to bless this girl with most bountiful endowments, great mounds that seemed quite out of place on such a nymph.
I gaped for longer than was decent, and finally realized that Miss Winston was standing near the door awaiting my verdict.
“Why, Miss Winston,” I smiled, “you have transformed the girl! She is quite lovely. If her service is as pleasing as her appearance, we have found ourselves a jewel!”
“T..t..t..thank you sir!” Miss Winston said, no small amount of relief in her voice.
Of course I looked back to Siobhán, indeed was helpless to do otherwise. She was now blushing as she poured the tea. Her full lips were a delicate pink hue, and as she drew close I savored the aroma of lilac perfume mixed with a more piquant fragrance that I would learn was the girl’s natural body scent.
She was, all in all, a delightful creature; a flower that had bloomed in the desert of Manhattan. I felt no lust for her, but rather joy that such beauty would grace my quarters and add flavor to my life. It was the first of many thoughts that set me on my path to the unthinkable.
*******
As I awakened the next morning, my first thought was of the comely Irish maid. That should have warned me. Already she had piqued my interest more than was proper. But I ignored the sign.
In the days that followed, Siobhán proved to be a diligent worker and was quick to learn. Her youthful beauty and charm were too much for even a man of my years to ignore. I found myself instinctively tracking her whereabouts in the house. If I did not see the girl for a while, I would make an excuse to myself and walk to the kitchen or the sewing room just for a glimpse of her. Again, this was a warning sign to which I paid no heed.
Like any 18-year-old Irish lass, she was high-spirited, even boisterous. One day she accosted the bread delivery boy, declaring that his bread was stale, and refused to let Ella accept it. The incident ended with Siobhán shoving the lad out the door as she berated him. I was obliged to write a note of apology to our baker.
But the crucial episode came a week later. I returned home early with my cousin Horace Atkins and his wife Sarah, whom I had invited for dinner. We walked into the dining room. Just then Ella burst from the kitchen, with Siobhán in hot pursuit.
Their clothing and faces were dusted with flour. Siobhán grabbed the older woman by her fat arm, laughing and saying, “Hold on, ye big cow! I ain’t powdered yer nose yet!” She threw a handful of flour at Ella, some of which landed on my guests and me.
The women’s rambunctious play ended only when they bumped into Sarah, who cried, “I say!” Horace also was startled, exclaiming, “My word!”
I was of course mortified, shamed to my boots that my kin would see horseplay among my servants. My face red with anger, I growled, “What is the meaning of this!”
Both maids froze in terror, then began to apologize profusely as they brushed the flour from us. Miss Winston, who had been upstairs, came down and scolded the girls as well, herding them back into the kitchen. I ordered the housemaid to bring us drinks in the parlor, and later we enjoyed a pleasant meal. But I knew that Sarah, an inveterate gossip, now had an amusing story for our friends and relatives.
Our meal ended at nine. Siobhán, still blushing, helped the Atkins into their overcoats as I bade them goodnight. Miss Winston had returned to her own home by then, and Ella had fled to her quarters off the kitchen as soon as the dishes were washed.
Still fuming, I turned to the girl. “I’ll see you shortly in my upstairs study.”
I had a tall brandy then. Perhaps it was excess drink that planted the idea in my mind. An idea that seemed at once horrific and yet set my blood to racing. You must understand, dear reader, that an obsession like mine does not arrive with a trumpet blast that allows a man to recognize and resist it as would be his nature.
No, it steals upon you slyly, like a winter fog, enclosing you ever so gently until you become lost in its mists. Lost and helpless in the face of its allure.
In just that state, I waited in my study. There was a knock on the door, and after bidding her do so, Siobhán entered. She stood meekly before me, hands behind her back and eyes downcast.
“Young lady,” I began, “you humiliated me in front of my guests tonight. I cannot tolerate that from my employees. Do you want to stay in my hire?”
“Oh yes sir! I’m happy here. Please don’t discharge me! We didn’t mean no harm!”
“Yet harm was done. I must punish you, to remind you I will not abide that kind of unruly play.”
After a pause, she said, “Yes sir.”
My heart was now pounding. Did I dare? Could I say the words? “Bend over and place your elbows on the desk there.”
“Sir?” Then Siobhán’s eyes grew bright as she understood what was to happen.
As if someone else were speaking, I heard myself say, “But first, raise your dress and petticoat above your waist.”
The girl gasped, her eyes now flashing with anger. “I will do no such shameful thing!”
I grabbed her by the shoulders, and with a madman’s voice said, “I am your master! I feed and clothe you and give you shelter! You will take whatever discipline I choose!”
“No sir! I will not!”
“Then leave this room. And keep going! If you walk out, then you are no longer in my hire!”
Our eyes remained locked together for a few seconds. Then a look of surrender came over the girl. I released her; she stooped down and pulled up her petticoat, dress, and apron, then bent over the desk.
She was wearing typical cotton bloomers, lined with pink lace and open at the crotch. My heart pounding, scarcely believing what I was doing, I placed my hands on the draws holding the bloomers at her waist. The girl looked back to me, her eyes like great saucers now. I expected another outcry, but she only waited, now submitting to this ultimate shame.
As if in a dream, I pulled the bloomers down to her knees.
I rose up and looked upon Siobhán’s naked buttocks, spread before me in all their glory. I had never seen this part of a woman’s anatomy save in paintings and sculpture. But what artist could capture the beauty that filled my eyes? Her derriere was perfection, as white as alabaster yet soft as Naples silk, inviting my touch.
I gently laid one hand on the trembling girl’s shoulder, then brought the other down on her buttocks with a resounding smack! And oh, the ecstasy! I thrilled at the sound, which echoed off the walls, as my hand hit her supple flesh. To her muffled cry of “Ooh!” To the shimmy that spread through the fat of her cheeks. To the faint pink glow that marked where my hand had been. It was joy beyond words.
I leisurely spanked the tart. After several smacks I paused to gently caress her firm bottom, relishing the silky feel of her flesh, my hand eagerly exploring this virgin province. And when I once again came down on her cheeks with another vigorous whack, I felt a keen surge of electricity up my arm. It was quite the most amazing sensation I had ever known in my life.
Now I was no longer administering due justice, but was taking a man’s pleasure. The feelings of domination mixed with the pure delight of Siobhán’s naked bottom left me almost faint with wonder.
I tried to stop after a few smacks, but could not resist yet another and another. It was if some part of me had declared independence from my conscience, and must revel in just one more delightful whack of her sweet flesh; in savoring the spectacle of that bright rosy glow spreading across her cheeks.
Finally, gasping for breath, I paused to view my handiwork. The girl’s round buttocks were blushing a deep pink. Never had I seen anything so beautiful as Siobhán’s well-paddled bottom.
Siobhán then glanced back to me, her eyes damp with tears. “Oh please, sir!” she whimpered.
“Have you learned your lesson, young lady?” I asked, my hand probing and squeezing her soft red cheeks.
“Oh yes sir!”
“Shall I make sure of it?”
“Whatever ye wish, sir!” she murmured, her eyes telling me that she was truly in my power.
That look inflamed me again; I rained more blows on Siobhán’s cheeks, these smacks more light and designed to sting. Each was accompanied by a faint “ooh” from the girl, her head now bowed in acceptance of my hand’s will.
Finally I could take no more. Still in my trance, I reached down and pulled Siobhán’s bloomers up, discovering yet another delight: the scent of her body and her pussy. The rich pungent aroma of Siobhán once again electrified me. Overcome with affection for this creature who could provide such sensory bliss, I planted a long loving kiss on each of her buttocks, my lips feeling the heat still radiating from my discipline.
As I stood back, the girl rose and lowered her garments into place. Her eyes suddenly began to blaze with fury as she stood before me, tears running down her cheeks. With a cry of, “You, you..!” Siobhán reflexively drew back her hand to strike me. But she could not. I was the master, she the maid. It was unthinkable.
So filled with animal lust was I that I exulted in the fact that there would be no punishment for my sin. I could satisfy my appetite for this tart without remorse or regret. Or so I thought.
Wiping away tears, the sweet lass turned and ran from the room. I sat down, my manhood throbbing with pleasure. I felt a gush of semen and savored perhaps the longest and most satisfying climax of my life.
*******
When I awoke the next morning, however, mortification at what I had done cloaked me like a shroud. I dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where an unsmiling Siobhán served my tea. Ella, cheerfully ignorant of the outrage that had taken place last night, made my breakfast. Just before leaving for work, I called Siobhán into my library and locked the door behind her.
I sat at my desk, she across from me. Blushing with shame, I spoke. “Siobhán, I am so, so dreadfully sorry for what I did last night. It was inexcusable. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
She gazed at me coldly. “No sir, I cannot.”
“Nor can I blame you for feeling this way. But my girl, let me pledge to you now that I will never again touch you, and will always treat you with the utmost respect. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
Her face still grim, she spoke. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, Siobhán, that will be all.”
As the girl left, I felt a measure of relief. Every man, I rationalized, is surely entitled to one lapse in judgment. But now I had given her my solemn word, which was as good as gold. Ah, how little did I know myself!
Even so, in the days that followed I became yet more enchanted by Siobhán. Whenever she brought the tea tray to my library and walked from the room, I would gaze at her figure, recalling the sublime charm of her buttocks. It never failed to stir my manhood.
Siobhán alone saw the desire in my eyes that grew with each passing day. A short time later I hosted a small soirée, where the girl’s beauty earned both her and me many accolades. I was thrilled to know that my friends admired this creature who was under my dominion. Such is a man’s vanity!
As the party was breaking up, I found myself gazing at Siobhán with unbridled lust. She looked at me for a second, then lowered her eyes and briefly nodded yes. I blinked in surprise, but she raised her eyes and yet again nodded yes, a blush on her cheeks.
By eleven o’clock the house was quiet. I waited, still unsure, in my upstairs study. Then Siobhán entered. With a subservient look, she dutifully raised her clothing and bent over the desk.
We repeated our ritual as before. I drew down her bloomers and spanked her sweet young bottom, then tenderly kissed her nether cheeks, feeling that delicious mix of guilt and pleasure. Afterwards she adjusted her garments and gave me another blistering look; then she left the room without a word having been exchanged.
I lay in bed, wondering why Siobhán had submitted to me again. She had of course committed no offense that would warrant such ill-treatment. Her only sin was to be young and beautiful. Did she think it was expected to keep her employment? It was not. But to my shame I could not bring myself to tell her this.
Of course, the next morning I felt lower than dirt. I apologized profusely. But I made no vow to never repeat my disgraceful behavior. We both knew by then that it would be folly to do so.
So now our pattern was set. Each week I would thoroughly spank that darling girl. Our secret ritual became the highlight of my life. When work’s dreariness oppressed my spirit, I would recall those delightful moments with Siobhán: her glowing naked buttocks; her delectable scent; her seething look when it was over. Of that period in life I can recall no other moments that gave such transcendent pleasure.
I spanked her supple young derriere not to discipline or teach her a lesson, but for the sheer pleasure it gave me. As time went on I spent more time fondly caressing her cheeks made warm by my hand. No less pleasurable was the feel of my lips roaming over their expanse. Never was a woman’s behind more lovingly or thoroughly kissed than was Siobhán’s.
Instead of the desk, I would occasionally bid Siobhán place her knees on the seat of my chair with her back to me. With her thighs vertical and her calves horizontal, she would hold the chair and instinctively thrust out her buttocks, which gave me a full and most delightful view of all her feminine charms. This so inflamed me that I would spank all the harder, then kiss and worship her buttocks all the more affectionately.
One night just after Thanksgiving, Siobhán came to the study wearing her outer cape and bonnet. “Have you been out?” I asked.
“Yes sir. I was running away from ye.”
A shudder went through me. “But you came back.”
“Yes sir. I packed me little grip, walked down the alley and was on me way down Amsterdam Avenue to me grandparents.” As she removed her cape, she paused, a bleak look on her face. “Did ye know, sir, that me sister Deirdre was beaten most every week by her husband before the bastard left her?”
“No, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And even grandfather Séamus now and then strikes Bridget.” Wiping a tear from her cheek, she went on, “It seems a woman’s lot in life to suffer blows from men. I decided that if all I have to do is let you spank me bum now and then, it’s no worse than I might receive from any man.”
She eyed me keenly. “Is that all to which I must submit?”
“I wish I could promise you that, Siobhán, but I cannot.” Her eyes were now filled with dread as I stepped behind her and began to unbutton her maid’s uniform. When the dress was undone, I grasped the sleeves and pulled it down to her waist.
Siobhán was wearing a short chemise, trimmed in lace. As I unbuttoned it she realized my new fascination. I thought she would look down in shame, but instead she gazed at me evenly, never wavering.
I removed the chemise and stepped back to look at Siobhán, who was now nude from the waist up. I had thought her buttocks to be sensual perfection, but no, that honor belonged to her breasts.
“Siobhán,” I breathed, “you are truly beautiful.” She seemed unreal, as if she had stepped out of a painting by Manet. Her great creamy breasts were nearly the size of honeydews, flawless in every way. They sagged ever so slightly from their sheer weight. Her nipples were fresh rosebuds, surrounded by wide areolae of warm pink suffused with a hint of tan.
Like her buttocks, Siobhán’s breasts wanted a man’s touch. I sat down in my desk chair and gestured to my lap. “Come, girl, sit.”
Her eyes wide with fear, she came and settled into my lap, trembling like a frightened doe. The tension in the room was almost unbearable. I placed one hand on the back of her neck and the other gently on her bosom, feeling an electric thrill as my hands roamed over the most delightful globes that a man can be privileged to touch. Their soft, yet firm and supple feel left me breathless.
Our eyes were locked together, just inches apart. “What am I doing, Siobhán?” I whispered.
“You are feeling me boosom, sir.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“No sir.”
“But you accept it?”
“Yes sir, you are me master.”
My cock leaped in my pants as I bent down to place my lips on her soft skin, so translucent that I could faintly discern veins beneath. For long moments I savored the taste of her nipples; the scent of her body; the indescribable pleasure of my hands gently kneading her firm young breasts.
Having satisfied my appetite, I looked once again into her eyes. “Thank you, Siobhán.”
Now blushing intensely, the girl quickly got up and began to put on her chemise and re-button her dress. She eyed me with that curious mix of obeisance and defiance that I had come to know so well. She could not have known that her helpless indignation merely fueled my desire for her.
This, you see, is where an obsession takes you. It teases and tantalizes, always suggesting yet more and baser pleasures, daring you to go farther, to taste it all. Now firmly in its grip, I could do nothing but obey.
*******
There are some moments in a man’s life so vivid that he remembers every detail. One such moment for me came in late December, on the night of our first heavy snowstorm of the season.
I remember sitting in my study, silent except for the hiss of coal burning in the fireplace and the occasional muffled sound of a hansom cab passing outside. I watched snow swirling down outside my window, then glanced down to watch Siobhán’s pink lips glide the length of my stiff manhood. For the first time in my life, a woman was pleasuring my cock with her mouth.
The idea had come to me a week earlier, and had driven me mad with passion. Could a divine creature like Siobhán bring herself to offer this most obscene of pleasures to her lord? The thought of her submitting to me that way thrilled me almost as much as the act itself.
When the girl had slipped into my study that night, I was waiting in a stuffed chair in my robe and pajamas. The pajamas were unbuttoned, and as she approached I pulled out my semi-hard manhood and testicles.
She let out a sharp gasp, saying, “Oh, no, please sir, not that!”
I made no reply, only laid a small pillow on the floor in front of me where she was to kneel. With a look of abject acceptance, the girl settled before me, placing her hand and then her soft lips on my manhood.
I had thought that Siobhán’s buttocks and her breasts gave the ultimate in carnal pleasure. But I was wrong. It was her sweet warm mouth, now engulfing my cock and sending me into spasms of ecstasy. Never had I imagined that such delectations were ours to enjoy this side of Paradise.
The tart dutifully kissed, licked, and swallowed my manhood. I closed my eyes, now experiencing all the more intensely the sensations that her lewd mouth provided. “Go slow, girl,” I whispered feverishly, “ever so slow. Please your master.”
The nymph did just that. She withdrew from my cock and slowly moved her tongue around the head and down the shaft, then opened her lips to welcome me again. She eased her lips down my shaft in the most delightful manner possible. Her only purpose was to please her lord, to use her silken mouth for his pleasure.
Indescribable moments of bliss were followed by a quivering in my manhood that raised me to new heights. I all but exploded in her mouth, gasping as jets of semen flooded out of me. The angel obediently gripped my manhood with her lips and never spilled a drop.
Still out of breath, I drew out a handkerchief and gave it to the girl. She took it and released my semen into it, wiped her mouth, and then rose and threw the soiled cloth into the fireplace.
I placed my still-tingling cock back in my pajamas and rose to my feet. Siobhán looked at me, a mix of fury and humiliation in her eyes. “Why must you abase me so!” she cried in a low voice.
“I am helpless to do otherwise, my girl. How can I explain it?”
“Try!”
“Siobhán, you are in my power and must obey me. Yet I am just as much in the power of this passion I have for you. I cannot resist it any more than you can disobey me!”
Did part of her understand? She shook her head, saying, “God have mercy on us.” Then she left the room.
*******
I fought, dear reader, against what I knew was the ultimate degradation of Siobhán. I truly did. But weeks before it actually happened, I knew that it was as inevitable as death.
Each time I spanked the maiden, I saw the lush tufts of her pubic hair, as black as night, and the mystical cleavage that it covered. On a bitter cold night in January, with the wind howling outside and making my spirit just as wild, I paddled Siobhán’s naked bottom as was my wont. But I could not stop there, not on this night. I took out my throbbing cock and, spreading her legs, placed it against her damp labia.
She gasped, crying, “Oh no, sir, please! Not that! Let me take it in my mouth instead, sir! I beg you!”
“It must be, my girl,” I whispered as I bent over her and felt my manhood glide into her wet sheath. Now we both cried out, helpless to stop this primal ritual of a man satisfying his animal instinct with a woman.
I was made literally faint by the luscious velvet feel of Siobhán’s pussy; by the rich musky fragrance that engulfed us. Mustering all my willpower, I withdrew, determined to make our ultimate pas de deux as satisfying as possible.
Pulling the girl up by her shoulder, I turned her around, saying, “Take off your apron. And your dress.”
She gazed at me, that look of defiance again in her eyes. I think she was mere seconds from dashing out of the room. But she could not. Her eyes never leaving mine, she disrobed as commanded.
“Please sir, not me petticoat too. Leave me something.”
“Very well. But take off your chemise.”
The tart obeyed, then stepped to me, knowing my thoughts. Our eyes again locked together, I caressed her breasts, probing and savoring her womanly charms. I planted loving kisses on her cleavage and her nipples, then drew up and grasped her shoulders. She willingly let me turn her around and bend her over the desk.
The thrill of once again entering the girl’s warm citadel was almost unbearable. I thrust ever so slowly, but the sensation of my cock sliding deeply into her wet flesh drove me closer to climax. In desperation I withdrew and bent down, caressing her buttocks and kissing them unabashedly.
Adding to the thrill was the strong musky aroma of her pussy, now in service to my cock. I saw that her nether lips were open and slack, glistening in the dim gaslight. This most carnal feature of the girl was, to my eyes, as lovely as a dew-covered flower. Helplessly I rose and again took the maiden, sliding my cock the length of her, even as my hands reached forward to cup her soft globes.
How long I repeated this cycle of entering her and then pausing to worship Siobhán’s nether region with my lips I do not know. I was somehow transported to a place where time did not exist, a paradise where sensual pleasure obliterated all awareness of anything other than this adorable girl’s body.
My eventual gush of semen into her was bittersweet; a sensation beyond bliss yet marking the end of the most intense pleasure a man can take. Afterwards I pulled her up from the desk and for long moments held her from behind, kissing the back of her neck and caressing her soft bosom. Captivated by the feel of her warm body against mine, I felt as if a mere mortal were holding an angel.
Finally I buttoned my pants as Siobhán collected and put on her clothing. She glanced at me then, a look of great sadness on her face. “Are ye now through with me, sir?”
“Through with you?”
“Yes sir. You have taken every pleasure I can offer ye. Is that not enough?”
Once again came the inevitable feeling of remorse. “Ah Siobhán, what can I say? Considering who you are and who I am, a single moment enjoying your charms is too much; and a lifetime is not enough. I do not know how to answer you.”
I cannot understand divine Providence. Why does it place before us such irresistible earthly delights as a woman’s buttocks, her breasts, her mouth and best of all her pussy, and yet say that only with a wife can a man satisfy his carnal needs?
A week later Siobhán slipped wordlessly into my study. The look in her eyes told me. She knew that I would once again bury my manhood in her warm body. She was now resigned. Her entire body was mine, a willing vessel for my pleasure.
And so the winter passed. The colder the nights, the hotter burned my passion for that sylph. She faithfully submitted herself to me. I allowed her one liberty, that of choosing how to please me. Entering and kneeling before me meant that her mouth would render pleasure that night. Bending over my desk meant that a good spanking was in store. If she removed her bloomers before she did so, then I was invited to enjoy her pussy as well.
I never demurred in her choice. There was, quite literally, no way that the nymph could fail to satisfy. Siobhán Flynn was beauty and eroticism made flesh. There were times that I thought her so delightful that sin lay not in enjoying her body, but in denying oneself the pleasure. Such are the depths to which a man can sink.
In early March I left New York to spend a few days at the retreat of a banker friend, Elliott Stearns, north of the city at Stony Point. I passed many pleasant hours with his son Edwin Stearns, who had just entered Yale and like myself had a great love of poetry.
I returned home on a Monday, arriving late in the afternoon. The house seemed oddly quiet. After I called for her, Miss Winston appeared, trembling and her face ashen.
“Where is everyone?” I asked. “Tell Siobhán to bring some tea to my study.”
“I cannot, sir. She has disappeared.”
“What!”
“Yes sir. She ran away the day after you left. I made inquiries, and she’s not at her grandparents’ house. No one knows where she has gone.”
“But why would she leave?”
The woman looked at me in icy reproach. “C..c..can you not guess, sir? Did you n..n..not ever know?”
*******
The next few months were a nightmare. I searched for the girl. So much did I ache for her that my health began to suffer. I began to have headaches; to break into night sweats; to have colds and bouts of flu that lingered for weeks. Worst of all were the uncontrollable fits of coughing.
But that was nothing compared to the emptiness I felt without Siobhán. Only in her absence did I realize how much that maiden truly meant to me. She had given her body to me; but in so giving, she had taken. Taken some essence of me; now I felt little more than an empty shell.
In desperation I turned to professional sleuths. The Pinkerton Detective Agency proved tenacious. On August 1, 1888, they located my nymph in Philadelphia. She was working at a bakery in the Carroll Park area of the city.
I ordered them to not contact her, but to maintain watch and to deliver twice-weekly reports of her from that point on. By then my health had become so poor that I was obliged to take medical leave from Harper’s.
On a bright day in late October, I traveled by train to Philadelphia. Just before sundown, I knocked on a first-floor apartment on Brandywine Street. Siobhán answered almost at once. She had gained a little weight. Beneath her peasant blouse, her breasts were swollen, even more full than I remembered. Her features were well defined, more that of a woman.
She looked at her caller, and after a few seconds said, “You.”
“Hello, Siobhán.” My pulse was racing; it was difficult to breathe. She seemed too beautiful to be real. So often had I dreamed of her full lips and her deep green eyes that now I could scarcely believe that I was once again gazing at her in the flesh.
“And what do ye want?”
“I came to visit you. And to see my son Thomas.”
A startled look crossed her face. “Come in,” she said, and then added, “so ye know that I bore ye a child. And that his name is Thomas.”
I entered and sat on the worn sofa to which she directed me. “The agents I hired are quite thorough. A week ago, a lady stopped you on the street to admire and ask about the babe. She was in my employ. I also know that you have agreed to marry Robert Ferguson, who owns the bakery where you work.”
With a wry smile, the girl rose and brought a sleeping infant from a tiny bedroom. She glanced at me and back to the babe. A look of pure love for my son came to her face. At that moment, Siobhán Flynn was more beautiful than I had ever seen her; a lovelier Madonna could not be imagined.
She handed the babe to me. “He is your son. Do you believe me?”
“Yes. You told Miss Winston that I was the father.” I gazed in awe at the tiny creature, my own flesh and blood. I noted the russet down on his head, the faint dimple in his chin that marked him as a Jennings. Turning back to Siobhán, I continued, “You told her that you felt life begin to quicken within you just days after the first time I … we…”
“Yes,” Siobhán smiled dryly, “How would you describe what ye did to me?”
“We did not make love. But we did make this child.”
“Aye, we did. Shall I tell him some day that the seed that gave rise to him was planted as I was bent over a mahogany desk, with tears running down me cheeks?”
I lowered my head in shame. “My treatment of you was unforgivable.”
She eyed me dispassionately, having heard it all before. “Would ye like some tea, sir?”
“Yes, that would be most welcome.”
I held Thomas as Siobhán made tea and brought it into the living room. She poured me a cup, almost as if we were master and servant again. “Are ye well?” she asked. “You look like death warmed over.”
“You are not far from the truth.”
“Meaning?”
“I am dying, Siobhán. I have tuberculosis. It seems to be a rather virulent kind. At the moment it’s in remission, but the doctors give me no hope. They say I have a year to live, two at the most, and then only if I go west to a dry climate.”
Siobhán’s face went pale. “Is this true, sir?”
“Yes.”
A mix of emotions came to her face. To my surprise, her eyes became wet with tears. “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Jennings. You seem awful young to die.”
“But die I must. Which brings me to the real purpose of my visit.”
“And that is?”
“As you may know, I have a grown daughter who lives in Chicago. But no male heirs. It would mean the world to me if you would give Thomas my name. Thomas Jennings. In return, I will acknowledge him as my true son, and make him heir to half my estate.”
Siobhán took a sip of tea. “You surprise me, sir. I thought ye’d pretend that yer little maid and her poor babe never existed.”
“Nothing could be farther from the truth.” Looking out into the street through chintz curtains, I went on, “When a man’s life draws to a close, he wants to know that something of him lives on. The Jennings family name is an old one; we’ve been in New York for generations. I would like to do my family duty. To pass the torch, our name and blood carried into the future. That is what I most fervently desire.”
“Rob was saying he’d adopt the lad. A proud one is me Rob.”
“I cannot be a father to the boy, Siobhán. Robert must be. But this is what I can give you and my son. I have retained a lawyer here in Philadelphia to administer a trust fund for the boy. It will cover all your expenses in raising him. If and when you and Robert have children, the same amount will be given to each of your own children.”
“If Thomas or anyone in this family falls ill, you will be cared for in the finest hospital. Should the lad have a quick mind, he can attend the best private schools and eventually college, preferably an Ivy League school. At the age of 25 he will receive his full inheritance.”
“How much do ye think twill be?”
“My accountant says on the order of half a million dollars.”
“All this, and after ye gave me no help when I was carrying the babe?”
“That’s not entirely true. Do you remember Mrs. Parsons, who befriended you in August and just so happened to be a mid-wife? She looked after you, helped deliver the boy, and never took a cent for her efforts.”
“That was you?”
“Yes. She too was in my hire. The night you gave birth, I received a telegram from her, informing me that I had a son.”
“So ye’d do all this just to have the lad bear your name?”
I smiled bitterly. “And perhaps as one final apology to you, my girl; unlike all the others, this one is truly sincere.”
Siobhán smiled. That smile caused a great sadness to overwhelm me. Tears began to fill my eyes and trickle down my cheeks.
“Sir, why are ye crying?”
I looked at the girl in abject misery, now fully understanding for the first time. “Siobhán, I spent so much time thinking only to use you for my pleasure. I should have been thinking of ways to make you laugh, to bring that wonderful smile to your face! You cannot imagine the regret I feel!”
The girl watched me in silence as I drew out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from my face. Finally she spoke. “Sir, I will tell ye something I never told anyone and hardly admitted to meself.”
Now rising and looking out the window, she went on, “It’s in a woman’s nature to want to please a man. Even as wee children we’re taught that’s our purpose in life.” Taking a deep breath, she glanced at me, saying, “Would it make ye feel better to know some part of me was glad to give ye pleasure?”
“You was a handsome distinguished gent, me a little servant girl. Ooh ye made me so mad! Paddling me bum and making me do all that other! But later on, lying in bed, I’d sometimes think tweren’t so bad. That I was doing what a woman’s best fit to do, give pleasure to a man.”
“But I want ye t’ know I kept me pride. Some part of me I never gave to you and will never give to any man. I ain’t no slattern.”
“You could never be that, Siobhán.”
“Sir, I want to ask. Did ye ever feel anything more than just desire for me body? Anything a’tall?”
Again came the tears. “Siobhán, when you left I did miss the pleasure you gave me. But what I missed more was you, yourself. Your quiet smile when you brought my tea in the morning, even if I had paddled you shamefully the night before. Your lovely face; your friendly welcome in the evening when I came home from work. Your laughter as you joked with Ella. That is what I missed most.”
“You say it’s a woman’s nature to want to please a man. It seems a man’s nature to desire a woman’s body, without realizing how much more there is to her. Dear girl, you brightened my life as no woman has ever done. You are the only thing I will miss when I am finished here on earth. From the bottom of my heart I say that!”
She blessed me with another smile. “That will have to do, I guess.”
Three days later, I met Siobhán and her fiancé Robert Ferguson at the law office of Williams and Burns. Robert was a ruddy-faced Scotsman, as poor as a church mouse. His clothing was threadbare but clean. I searched his eyes carefully, finally satisfied that they were the eyes of a good and decent man.
We signed all documents making Thomas Jennings my legal heir. Then we walked out of the office to the terrace of the building, adjusting our topcoats. The day was dim and misty, with raindrops gathering on our wool garments.
Robert and I paused as Siobhán walked on. “So,” he said, “we are through with you now?”
“Yes.”
“Every lad needs a father. I will try to be that to Thomas.”
“I am sure you will.” Again tears welled up in my eyes. I took the man’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked.
Struggling to breathe, I spoke. “I want you to know, sir, that I would give every cent I have, indeed would sell my soul to the devil, to walk in your shoes for even a little while. Because you have the love of that girl, Siobhán Flynn. And a lifetime to spend with her. You must know what a treasure she is. Love and respect her! Treat her as I could not!”
Robert nodded, then went down the steps and took her hand. Siobhán gave me one last look, a wan smile on her face. They walked down the street, hand in hand. The misting rain and the crowd began to enclose them, and after a block I could see them no more.
*******
I have penned these words in my sleeping car on the Sunset Limited of the Southern Pacific Railroad. The desolate terrain of West Texas passes before my eyes as a dreamscape; a bleak foretaste of my future. Tomorrow I arrive in Deming, New Mexico and Doña Ana Sanatorium, where I will pass my last days on earth. Can this really be happening to me?
I leave this story to my descendents. Perhaps they will understand; perhaps not. But how can I convey to them feelings that seem too deep for words? Shall I tell them in closing that the hours I spent with that girl were the sweetest of my life? Shall I confess to them and to God that even now, the memory of those carnal acts to which I subjected her gives me the most ineffable pleasure?
But my deathbed awaits me. There I pray that just before my eyes close for good I will see a vision of her lovely face; that with my last breath I will utter her name, my beloved Siobhán.