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The deed was not hard to achieve and it was sealed, as it happens, by the death of that old goat Palmerston. He went as he would have wanted, swiving a serving wench on a billiard table. Naturally, the official version was that the great statesman had died of “old age” — which was true in one sense — men in their eighties take a risk going for a third orgasm. We shan’t see his like again.
This left politics in turmoil. The recent election had been, in effect, on the question of whether or not Pam should be Prime Minister. Without him it was hard to see what held the Government together — so it fell apart. That idiot midget scion of the benighted Russells, Lord John, was sure he could unite all factions. He was right in a perverse way — everyone hated him. He was able to stay where he was because the only person most of the Cabinet hated more was the Chancellor, William Ewart Gladstone.
The Queen complained that Gladstone used to address her as though she was a public meeting. To be fair, he did that to everyone. He was the holiest of holy Joes, even his after hours frequenting of the mean streets of Soho was, he said, to rescue “fallen women”. Odd, I told Kate Salisbury, how all the ones he saved were pretty as a picture. His domineering ways meant that power would, one day, be his, but in the meantime the aged Lord John could keep the seat warm.
However, dear Dizzy upset the apple cart by out-bidding Gladstone on the hot question of the day — parliamentary reform. This led to a short-lived Tory government led by the aged Lord Derby in which Kate’s stepson gained high office — only to resign it on a point of principle so obscure that you’d have needed a magnifying glass to find the thing. But despite his success in getting the Reform Act through parliament in 1867, and despite become Prime Minister when Derby stood down, Dizzy could not hold onto power. Gladstone was terrible on the rebound. An election was necessary to give one side or the other power.
That gave me my chance. Fortescue, my chosen instrument, sat for one of the most corrupt boroughs in all of Ireland, which was saying something. Lord Kilkenny had been happy to let the youngest son of a friend keep the seat warm until his own eldest son, Lord Freddy, came of age — but that had just happened, so Forty was turfed out. I offered him Twickenham where my political influence was great. Naturally he accepted. Naturally he won.
The dear Liberals also won. Kate Salisbury was despondent, but then the death of old Jem bahis firmaları cheered her up. That meant Robert took over the house and the title and she, bless her, could find herself a more congenial man, which she did in the form of Derby’s eldest, Edward. Now there was a peculiar fellow, and if I had more space I could tell you a thing or two about him, but what matters here is that Kate was happy to become Kate Derby and retain a London residence, and I was happy to entertain her — in our usual way.
Kate and I were in effect married. Edward needed a hostess, he got her. His interest in sex was zero. Turnberry Pike became Kate’s home from home, and it was one night, passion mostly spent, that I unveiled the great plan.
Kate’s titties were not as big as mine, but her bright pink nipples, when erect, were a sight to behold, and I had a way of teasing them with my teeth which made her moan like a bitch in heat. I would run my sharp teeth across them slowly, scratching them until her moaning reached a certain pitch, at which point I would suddenly bite them. At precisely that moment my fingers, which would usually have been rubbing the lips of her cunny together, with my thumb pressing her love button, would suddenly and violently thrust into her gooey cunny, causing her back to arch and her moaning to reach a new height. I would then use my fingers to fill her, pushing a second and even a third into her quivering wetness, whilst scratching her nipples with my teeth, before biting the other one, and vigorously finger-fucking her. I loved Kate and she loved me.
As she sucked her own juices off my fingers, lying against my heaving breasts, I told her I intended to follow her example and get married.
Fluttering those long, long eyelashes, she flashed me a glimpse of those pale blue eyes.
“To Fortsecue, I take it?”
“Who else, silly girl” I said, squeezing the nearest of her tits.
And so I outlined the plan.
The new wing I was having build on the old Gothic folly would allow the space to entertain on the scale a Minister needed. I’d already used my holdings in the railway company to insist they build a station at Turnberry Pike, which would allow the entire Cabinet to get to the house from Westminster in an hour tops. I would use my skills as a hostess to promote Forty’s career, and in turn, he would give me a vicarious taste of power.
One of the things I liked about Forty was that he had a good conceit of himself. It worried him not that there was a considerable kaçak iddaa difference in age between us. Neither did it occur to him that a wealthy lady like myself might regard his suit with disdain. There were plenty of reasons to do that. His father’s estate was deeply in debt, there were too many daughters for comfort, and Forty was a youngest son and so unlikely to inherit much. Irish gentlemen were not much esteemed and were known to be chancers, using the gift of the gab freely. True he was six foot and handsome with it, but while a Lady might dally with him, marrying him was another matter. It never occurred to the dear boy that in proposing to me he was exposing himself to the chance of rejection. I liked him for that. I had noticed that the most successful politicians had that same gift of utter self-confidence.
As the dear boy knelt and offered me his hand, I told him not to be such a silly thing and get up. Of course I would marry him, but he needed to know the ground-rules. It was typical of his egotism that he simply smiled and said he longed to hear them. At their simplest they boiled down to one simple fact: I was in charge. There would be legal protection for my property rights and my money. He would receive a generous allowance — I’d pay him the £5000 a year the Prime Minister got paid — and I’d pay his political expenses. He could use our town house whenever he wanted, and as I was sure he might need some privacy, he could use the old house I’d inherited from my first husband for his trysts with trollops. Those he would need because, and here I was very clear, he was not fucking me. He hesitated a moment and began to say something about my beauty, but I stopped him.
“Forty, it’s simple. We have three things in common. We are both ambitious, we both like politics and we both prefer cunt.”
He did actually blush at that.
“You are direct, my lady love.”
“I am, Forty. So do you accept?”
“I’d be a bloody fool not to, but let me check one point. You really are comfortable with me whoring? I will be discreet.”
“In that, Forty my darling, you’ll be a rare politico. But yes, fine with you exercising with fillies — just make sure you don’t pick up a dose of the clap, and try not to get blackmailed.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“I accept your hand in marriage.”
We married at the parliamentary church, St Margaret’s. As befitted the leading Society hostess we had a lavish reception at Grosvenor Square at which Gladstone and Dizzy buried kaçak bahis the hatchet for the day. The only sour note was bloody Bob Salisbury ignoring Dizzy; but the old Jew didn’t much care.
My fourth wedding night was even more fun than my third, as it turned out. Darling Fanny had found herself a man and a family, and my new maid was still a novice, so Kate Salisbury, who was staying for the week, helped me undress.
Her hands caressed my titties, and I ground my arse back into her pudenda. Pushing her hand between my hairy lips she pulled her finger upwards, scooping up my goo and laving my love button with it. I gasped.
“What’s come over you, Kate? You are always so submissive usually?”
She kissed my neck while rubbing my bud. Suddenly a wave of passion such as I had never known shot through me, making my cunt drip down into my hairs and down my thighs.
“It’s your wedding night, Frances, and for once, you are going to be fucked.”
The way in which she said it sent shivers through me, and as she curled two fingers into my sensitive cunt, I grunted, and my nipples felt like they would burst they throbbed so tightly. As she moved her fingers in and out faster, I gasped with pleasure. Then, suddenly, she withdrew them and turning me to her, said:
“Open your mouth, whore!”
The sudden reversal of our usual roles threw me, I felt disorientated. No woman had treated me this way, but when she told me to open my mouth and pressed her fingers in there, I sucked them eagerly, tasting the sweet yet tart taste of my own juices. She smiled.
“Good girl, Frances. Now,” she added, lowering her voice and adding an edge to it, “I think whores get fucked on all fours — so, assumed the position!”
Her words triggered something deep in me, something that I had barely known was there, but which now flooded forth — literally in terms of my cunny.
Whimpering, I crawled onto the bed, arching my back, head down, arse up, legs apart, giving her a grand view of my dripping sex.
I had expected her to start on my arse, but instead, she pulled my head up by my hair:
With that, she pushed the sapphic stick into my eager mouth, and I did as I was told. I gagged as she face-fucked me. As I looked up at her, I saw her smile:
“I love you Frances, this is our wedding night my darling.”
And I knew it was.
As she mounted me, I felt as though for the first time, I was truly happy on my wedding night. In return, when she had used me, I fell between her thighs and ate her until she squirted her nectar into my face. It was almost light before we fell, exhausted, into sleep. But now I knew myself to be loved, and in return, truly loved without reserve.
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