I was thirteen when I made the journey to London. I had heard about the great metropolis, of course, from the Reverend Lundy. After all he had some influential friends there and intrigued me with descriptions of the city's crowds and magnificent buildings. Better than his own modest Vicarage, he said, which seemed large to me at that age. I must have shown myself to be bright and willing youngster as the Reverend had taken a personal interest in my education and taught me to read and write and indeed impressed on me a desire to travel and see the world. This, I hasten to add, was between the sessions where I was made naked and photographed with his new-fangled camera. Sessions I had no difficulty with as he was kind and caring and only buggered my arse only when I was ready for it.

I had, to his astonishment I think and certainly my mother's and aunt's delight, turned out to be quite the young lady. His teaching was not onerous (though if I flagged I would be bound and have to recite the classics through a gag while he pleasured himself, or helped himself to my sister Victoria, who was four years younger than me) and I also had learned from him how to speak politely and correctly. My rough country accent (I was so pleased I now knew what that word meant!) had been clean polished away.

At thirteen I felt I was a young woman, and I had the manners and grace the Reverend demanded of me. Yes, I still remember the beatings whenever I dropped my aitches, or did not suck his thick member well enough as I recited Shakespeare correctly!

On that clear autumn day I went by cart to the nearest town and the new railway station and then by train to London. It was a filthy, smoky business and I was crowded into a compartment on hard seats with several other people, all of them male save for one sleepy-head female who had arranged herself in the corner. The men therefore took the opportunity to leer at me as if I would be available for their pleasure. Well, for a fee I might have been though modesty stopped them unbuttoning my dress with their hands even if their eyes told me of their ambition to see me naked. I fancied perhaps one or two of them had seen my portraits as produced by the good Reverend's camera. I am told that the photographic prints (how well I have learned the language of the new art) of myself bound and naked, as well as those of my sister and me involved in lewd lesbian acts where both Victoria and I were tied in compromising positions, had passed round the nation's capital in exchange for money.

Passed round for more money, I believe, than would be possible for a respectable gentleman to earn in a solicitor's office or as a clerk overseeing the shipment of trade goods from all ports of the Empire. Better indeed than a lady of ill-virtue who with her sexual ease among the taverns runs the risk of disease and pregnancy. Not something I would be permitted to suffer as the good Reverend Lundy merely uses my back hole or mouth; he assured me the use of which would not lead to any risk of being with child.

I permitted myself a small smile as I thought of these men sat looking at me, no doubt pillars of society and husbands of good standing (my little joke, I always pretend) were making themselves ejaculate over images of me bound and being fucked. Yes, I know; the good Reverend does not allow me to use that word in polite company. Not even with the Major, though he knows a thing or two about lust. But I was dressed here in a prim ankle-length dress, replete with petticoats, leather boots, bonnet and gloves (and silk knickers beneath, of all things!) and with none of my increasingly hairy twat and little of my emerging breasts on show, they would be hard pressed to recognise me. Moreover I was not as my pictures often showed me, bound and gagged and lying in a way that would allow any man to enjoy himself. Or any woman for that matter, for I am told that the man who will be meeting me at the great railway terminal in London, Mr Bennett, has made my images available to a good number of ladies as well as numerous men for their pleasure.

It amused me to think these men have good, honest wives at home who even as we travel may be fingering their own slits over my recorded image and thinking of bedding me in my ropes so I am unable to resist even the most salacious of sapphic desires. I was well aware of tribadic lusts: not only seeing my mother and aunt locked in passion, but was pleased that among my reading lessons with Reverend Lundy were books, supplied by the Major from his travels, of erotic stories and accounts of sexual liaisons. Among them were included the delights of lesbianism, and generously illustrated too. Often they had naked men and women entwined, or (my favourite) women locked in sexual union or even a handful of men relieving their lust on other men, but they persuaded me of the pleasures of all sexual acts. As Reverend Lundy says, the world is indeed a varied place and one must take advantage. But those were drawn illustrations, and as the Reverend impressed on us, the future is not with drawing and sketching but more the artist behind the camera, faithfully recording the tightness of ropes, the emissions of a stern penis or the swell of a young virgin breast eager to be used.

As we travelled I thought of the man who will meet me. Mr Bennett had, by all accounts, made a business from the sale of images of me and my sister (and that poor girl who has no name and is periodically taken from the cellar to be beaten for the delight of those who would happily see a young female spread wide and marked with a whip) and thus he could afford to pay for my ticket. The man would meet the cost of my stay in the capital too, and I was grateful. He had sent me money for the bonnet I wore as, he said, no woman should go out with her head uncovered lest people think she is a whore.

Me, a whore? Lord, that would never do! Perhaps if I was photographed with my little sister Victoria in a sixty-nine, or 'soixante-neuf' to use the full French name, with me wearing my pretty bonnet and kid leather gloves the light of recognition may ultimately have dawned in my fellow traveller's eyes. I suppressed a naughty smile and passed a careless hand over my bust as if in need of solace.

"Madame," said one of the men, lifting the brim of his hat in respect as he addressed me, "May I ask if you are you journeying to London to meet with an aunt, perhaps?"

A bold man, seeking information, and at least one of the men sat by him registered disapproval that a fellow traveller should initiate such a conversation so bluntly. As the Reverend reminded me and my sister as we posed in our bonds and wait for his attention in front of his camera, the art of life is not to be rushed in any way.

"The gentleman who will meet me in London, sir, " I replied politely, "is fully chaperoned and entirely respectable. I am to study at his private college in Chelsea. I wear this red rose at my lapel so he may recognise me on the platform." The man, younger than the others, raised his eyebrow. He was, compared to the others in front of me, at least reasonably good looking. He reminded me of that man Thomas who would plug my mother years ago, but it can't be him as he perished, I was told, in some far flung war on behalf of the new Queen.

Queen Victoria! How I had teased my sister over that, how she was so low and the Queen so high. "A name joins you but naught else," I would say. She reacted, as she usually did, by tying me hastily and pissing on my helpless body, telling me a good Queen would do that to her subjects and thus I ought to obey. The reverend Lundy has photographs of that act, and they are as popular as any, according to Mr Bennett's letters. But I digress; the man looking at me is interested in me for more than my ladylike prospects. I may, in my full outfit, look a little older than I am and I speak well, but I am still young and youth has eagerness. I notice he looks at my small breasts where they push against my dress and no doubt imagines licking my nipples. I tried not to look at his trousers, to see if there was an aroused state, but he has his gloves carefully placed in his lap and I make a note of his caution. I fancied he had a thick penis and would run me through with it if he could. Perhaps alone with just him in a train carriage and miles from anywhere I would be forced over and buggered, required to clean his soiled cock with my mouth while my hands are secured behind me with a torn petticoat strip before he uses my face as a toilet.

I was aroused at this thought and looked out of the window at the countryside. I felt warm, and wondered if other men in the compartment would have me too. Perhaps the oldest one would beat me as I toiled naked on hand and knees to scrub his kitchen floor as his dog slavers over me, the fat one would suspend me naked by my bound wrists to have his way with me, the one who looked like a clergyman would insist I embrace the statue of the crucifixion and frot lewdly on the tortured saviour, or the other one -- the disdainful one -- would want me to make love to his frigid wife in the hope of making her compliant to his wishes and thus she would grant permission for him to bugger his young son. Oh, the depravity of such thoughts quite stimulated me, for I may have been barely towards womanhood but I had experienced much.

My imagination was working feverishly and I recall feeling that little hot pulse between my legs that told me I needed to have sexual union of any kind soon.

"Madame," said the young man, addressing me again. "The train stops at Castle Junction to meet the connection from Bristol, which does not arrive for an hour. We could alight and enjoy a meal together as we wait. I would be honoured to accompany you to the hotel next to the station where they serve a refreshing beef platter."

"Sir," I said, a little sharply. "You are bold and I have expensive if not unusual tastes."

The man's eyes flashed. He knew what I was talking about, and so did one or two of the other men. The portly one's mouth sagged open (not a pleasing sight) as he grasped my meaning too. I did so love these moments; a hint, correctly interpreted, would open new horizons. But as the Reverend would say, you observe the skyline carefully before rushing towards the cliff edge.

"Then I must insist you are not alone as the train takes water (I had no idea that these foul, smoke-belching machines grew thirsty) and we wait for the connection." The man continued, his eagerness unabated.

"You are very kind," I said, "but I am prepared to wait in the Ladies Only room where I am sure there will be agreeable companions."

The man nodded and finally looked away. I was sure his gloves in his lap were raised a little higher as the stimulating thought came to him that I might be able to find a willing woman to rub and caress me in the private waiting room. As I knew I would want.

"My dear," said the only other female in the compartment (I had thought the woman had been asleep the whole while and was startled at her sudden wakefulness) "you must accompany me. We can talk of our mutual interests and hobbies while we wait. I am sure they will prove engaging."

I turned my head and looked at the old woman sat on the same side of the compartment as me. She must have been a little older than my mother but nowhere near as old as the Reverend Lundy. She did not have a moustache either, I was glad to see and though her face had faint lines at her eyes it added to her looks. She picked up her skirts and moved herself, obliging the man next to me to make way for her to sit at my side. "I am Mrs Dalrymple," she announced. "I would be happy to wait with you." At this she frowned at the young man opposite who had returned his gaze towards myself. He looked away again, quite promptly.

Mrs Dalrymple proved an able and amiable companion indeed, and in the privacy of the Ladies Only waiting room at Castle Junction amused herself with my slit. I have no idea how she knew my needs, but know them she did and soon was at me with hand up skirt and finding my hottest place. "You have the look of a girl in a photograph I saw a few weeks back, an artistic pose of a young lady naked and secured to another child, lips over the nether regions of the other."

"Madame," I said, "That may have been me. I have been thus photographed."

The woman smiled. "I think not, my dear. The children in the photograph were dusky skinned, as if from warmer climes, with dark hair and not blonde. They had iron chains at ankles and wrists as a slave would." I confess I had never been chained like that, and thus felt a certain warmth in me that there were other girls being so used and photographed. "But you have that look of a slut," the woman added as she brought forth a fresh gasp of intense pleasure from me by merely wiggling her fingers.

"A slut, madame?" I managed to say.

"You are deliciously wanton and open to advances. I saw that in the train carriage. In fact I recognised it as you boarded. Young girls who desire sex have that certain air about them. Yet you must be wary of men who see it too and approach you."

"But not women, I trust?" I was breathing hard as Mrs Dalrymple's fingers worked their magic in me.

"Not women at all," she laughed, and planted an immodest kiss on my lips which I returned happily.

"I have appeared in many artistic photographs," I informed Mrs Dalrymple as her fingers probed my holes, "though my sister and myself are usually bound with hemp rope as we perform sapphic pleasures." Mrs Dalrymple had skilfully penetrated my anus with one finger as other fingers and her thumb worked my cunt. Not a word that the good Reverend approves of, but my sister and I used it often in private, exhorting each other to 'lick my cunt' as our passions mounted.

"Truly delightful," said the woman and diddled me faster. "Then you must tell me more of why you are going to London."

"I am to be met by a Mr Bennett at the terminal," I said through my gasps as my arousal heightened. "A man who has devoted his life to the collecting of photographic art. I am to model for him in the city."

"Would that be Mr George Bennett, of Chelsea by any chance? If so, how propitious and how small a world. I visit him often to exchange images of naked children. I perhaps have seen you among them then. Tied up you say? How pleasant, yet my penchant is for girls in chains, so they are free to move and yet restrained from too many adventures. If you have not worn them I fear Mr Bennett has declined to show me your images. Such a shame."

All this was said as she massaged the inside of my slit and as I cried out in mounting climax, she placed her other hand over my mouth to prevent me inadvertently attracting a porter. She even at this pinched my nose closed so I struggled somewhat for oxygen; a cruel but inflaming move that had my petticoats soaked within moments. I must confess the urgency to breathe while she slowed her lower hand to extend my pleasure or deny my explosion as I call it, was perfectly judged. I achieved the explosion of desire at the very moment I was sure I would faint.

"Madame," I gasped as I sucked in air and my cunt pulsed with fire, "that was adventurous!"

"My dear young Miss Louisa (I had introduced myself on the train) I can do much more than that. Such a pity we do not as yet have moving photographs that could better display my actions and your near, but highly erotic, collapse. The demand for those would even outpace the need for Mr Bennett's collections."

"Would you make me climax like that again, were we to meet in London?"

"We shall meet again," said the woman confidently, "I can assure you of that. If you are staying with Mr Bennett he may well intend to show you off at one of his little shows."

"Shows, Madame?"

Mrs Dalrymple smiled. "Ah, for all your lasciviousness and lustful ways my dear child, you are still innocent of so many erotic impulses and desires." She paused and checked the clock on the wall. We had a few more minutes before we needed to make our way to the platform. "Mr Bennett made a good living before the advent of photography with shows to private audiences, a sort of pantomime if you will where the young girls -- or young boys if the audience warranted it -- performed acts of passion and depravity on a stage. The audience were not permitted to rise from their seats, of course, but they frigged enthusiastically on viewing. The appeal of these shows, these tableaux as Mr Bennett described them, was great. Some of London's, and indeed the Empire's, most prominent people attended." She laughed gently. "It pleases me to think I am one of them."

"But a show must perforce have movement," I said. "Being tied up is is the opposite of my condition. I am used to being bound and through the wonders of photography my image made available for the many to admire or express themselves over, but I am made helpless for it. But how can me being seen bound and my mouth stoppered provide a show?"

"Ah, Miss Louisa! Were you not fucked while bound? Even with arms tied did you not exercise movement to bob your pretty head on a man's thick cock, or your gag permitting, lap at an offered snatch? You see, my dear, there is often movement in that which is worthy of being seen. More, we must consider the arrangement of bound girls at the sides and back of the stage, who provide an appealing backdrop to the main action. I have confessed to you my love of chains on a very young lady, and happily Mr Bennett sometimes provided that scenario."

"You would have me chained for your pleasure? Unable to resist you?" A fresh surge of arousal was spreading through my lower parts and the wetness resuming between my legs.

"Yes," said Mrs Dalrymple before the porter on the platform called for passengers to board the train for the last leg of the journey. There was just time for one last kiss and we two elegant, if slightly flushed, females resumed our places in the carriage.

London lay ahead of me, and as the clattering, smoky train carried us closer I understood I was about to enter a city of vices and depravity. My loins trembled at the prospect of being in one of Mr Bennett's little shows, or perhaps discovering more sexual pleasures at the hands - and fingers - of my new friend, Mrs Dalrymple, and I grew aroused quietly thinking of myself chained by her bed at her beck and call.

I was too young to be in love, but there was the stirring of a romantic notion within me to join the seething passions warming my slicked sex.

The end