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Subject: {ASSM} MC {James L. Fairfax} (Mdom F rom span anal)
Date: Wed, 28 May 2003 08:10:05 -0400
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"MC"
 by James L. Fairfax


comment: This a bit of historical fiction, 
         more or less romantic, about a girl 
         who is down on her luck and an aging 
         man who befriends her.


I first saw her during my morning walk; it was along the path to
Nettlebed.  There was light rain, as there so often is in June,
and the poor young woman, who looked as if she had slept under a
hedge, was damp through.  I tipped my hat, as she stepped aside
to let me pass.

"Good morning to you, Sir." she said boldly.  Our eyes met, and I
paused in my progress.  Her hair was straggly and her face was
dirty, but under it all she was a comely lass -- thin, even
malnourished looking, but there was something attractive to me.
There was something about the lilt of her voice; she was not a
local girl.

"Good morning to you, Miss.  Are you going far?"  I said,
foolishly.

"As far as need be, Sir, even to London."  I knew in an instant
her circumstance.  The war between the American states was
choking off the supply of cotton.  Tens of thousands of spinners
and weavers, throughout the North, were unemployed. Some had
family to help.  Some went to the poorhouse or sank to
prostitution.  Others, of necessity, took to the road in search
of work.

"You are looking for work."

"Yes, Sir."

"I cannot offer you employment, but as a Christian, I will at
least offer you breakfast and a warm fire, to ease your journey."

"I would be most grateful, Sir," she replied, and it seemed to me
she emphasized "most."

"Come along, then.  It's not far.  My name is James Fairfax,
Major Fairfax."

"I'm most grateful to you, Major Fairfax, Sir.  My name is
Marie-Cecile Stewart."

I am not a handsome man.  My face is scarred, my nose broken, my
hair graying, and my speech is somewhat impaired, so I am not
attractive to women.  I was wounded out in India, and I sold out
of the army in '57.  Nor am I a wealthy man.  I have an income, a
few pounds annually, which would pay the rent for my little
cottage and pay Mrs. Trumble, my housekeeper, who came with the
cottage.  I keep no horse.  I dress plainly, and whatever money
is left over I generally squander on books and newspapers.  White
Ladies Bottom is a small village, and I seldom attend the local
church.  Everything considered, it may be the only female I have
occasion to speak to, for weeks on end, is Mrs. Trumble.  You
will understand, therefore, that I was intrigued by this strange
young woman who disturbed the routine of my retirement.

My home is on the edge of the village, the first cottage one
comes to, coming down the Nettlebed footpath.  Marie-Cecile
followed me through the low front door.  "Back so soon, Captain
Fairfax?" said Mrs. Trumble.

"Yes, I have brought a guest.  Mrs. Trumble, this is Mary."

"Marie-Cecile, Sir," she corrected me.  "It's all one name."

"Umph," I said, momentarily at a loss.  "At any rate, Mrs.
Trumble, I should be obliged if you would feed this young person
some breakfast and let her warm herself by the fire.  Not just
porridge, Mrs. Trumble, a real, nourishing breakfast."

Mrs. Trumble said, "Yes, Sir." and led the young woman into the
kitchen.  I retired to the front room, sat by the fire, and tried
to resume reading a novel, but I could not, for some reason,
concentrate on it.  I kept thinking of that young woman in my
kitchen.  I had never married.  I had, of course, in India, a
concubine.  The Hindus have a real appreciation for the sins of
the flesh; some of the low-caste women are shameless.  Back in
England, all these years, now, I had been deprived of female
companionship.  The social gulf between myself and the farmers of
White Ladies Bottom is unbridgeable, and I seldom get into the
city.  Even had I found a suitable wife, I felt I could not
afford to keep her in the proper style.  I confess, thinking
about the young woman had aroused sexual yearnings that I had
tried hard to suppress.

It was almost midday, and I had read but a hundred pages, when
Mrs. Trumble announced that the young lady was ready to depart. 
"Leave us a moment." I said, as she ushered the woman into the
room.  Marie-Cecile had greatly improved in her appearance.  Her
face was clean, her hair combed and pinned up. I had meant to
give her a shilling and send her on her way, but I could not
bring myself to give up looking at her.  For all that she was
fully mature, her thinness and frailty gave her a childlike
appearance.  Her small breasts, hardly filling the bodice of her
simple dress, would not have been out of place on a girl of
sixteen who had not yet begun her menses, which, as I understand,
is usually at seventeen or eighteen, in these parts. I've no idea
how long I stared, but at last I said, "Won't you sit down,
Marie-Cecile?"  She sat gracefully, sitting primly on the edge of
the chair.

"I wish to thank you, Sir, from the bottom of my heart, for your
charity toward a homeless woman.  It may be that you have saved
my life, for I was chilled through when you found me."

"Umph," I replied.

The wind had picked up, and it dashed rain against the window,
made the fire flicker in the grate.  Our eyes met, her blue eyes
shamelessly engaging mine.  "Captain Fairfax, Sir, could I ask
you, please, if you might employ me as a domestic servant?  I
would work for food.  Mrs. Trumble is getting very old.  She
could use some help."

I looked out at the atrocious weather.  "Well," I said, "I can
hardly turn you out into the rain.  You may stay until the
weather clears.  But then, I'm afraid you will have to go."
"Thank you, Sir," she replied.  "I will do anything to please
you."  Anything?, I thought.

"Mrs. Trumble," I said, "Marie-Cecile will be staying until the
weather clears.  She has offered to be useful.  Can you find her
work to do?  I cannot get my tongue around that name.  I think we
shall call her Em-See."

"Very well, Sir," both replied.

Well, I had not noticed how Mrs. Trumble had been aging. With MC
around the place, it improved visibly.  The fireplaces were swept
out, the furniture dusted, and my clothes, such as they were,
brushed and pressed, mended and hung neatly. Come nightfall, it
was still raining.  Mrs. Trumble came into the front room to
clear my supper tray.  The servants, of course, had eaten in the
kitchen.  "Major Fairfax, Sir," she said, "where is MC to sleep? 
Surely, you don't expect me to share my bed, do you?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Trumble.  Cannot you fix her a pallet in the
kitchen, where she can be warm, near the fire?"

"Well, I suppose so," she said.  My humble cottage had only the
two bedrooms, mine and Mrs. Trumble's, and only the two beds. It
was the middle of the night, when I was awakened by the sound of
my door softly closing.  The rain clouds had blown away, and
moonlight illuminated my room.  MC stood there, wearing one of my
old shirts, which Mrs. Trumble must have given her to sleep in. 
The sight of her, there in the dim light, her hair down, the
shirt tented by her upstanding little breasts, instantly aroused
my lust.  She came and stood, quite close to me, and said, "The
rain has stopped, Sir.  Does that mean that I must leave, come
morning?"

"Umph.  I suppose . . . "  The thought of driving her away was
depressing.

"If you keep me, I will serve you well, Major, Sir.  There are
many ways I can serve you."  She lifted the tail of the shirt,
revealing more of her lean, thin legs.

"You have no references," I said, stupidly.

"Cannot you judge me by my performance?  Do I not work hard? As
well, I offer you my body, to do with as you will."

"If you have sold your body, why are you here, in White Ladies
Bottom?"

"Sir, you misjudge me.  I have never sold my body.  I am not a
prostitute.  I offer myself out of gratitude, and affection, Sir.
 You have been most kind."

"But, surely, you are not a virgin."

"No, I have not been a virgin these past ten years, since I was
twelve."

"Twelve!"  I knew that things like that happened, but they are
not supposed to happen in civilized, Nineteenth-Century England,
a Christian nation.

"I have two older brothers.  They began to use me when I was
twelve.  No more, of course.  One is in the army, the other at
sea.  No man has used my body since I was sixteen."

"And now you offer yourself to me."

"Sir, I feel the time has come to do this."  She pulled the shirt
up over her head, shamelessly exposing her most private parts to
my gaze, and she turned back the coverlet of my bed. She climbed
in beside me and snuggled close.  "Oh, Major, Sir, this is nice. 
It's nice to be warm."  She reached out and placed her hand on my
erect organ, stroking it through the cloth of my night shirt.

I rolled on my side and ran my hand along her naked body.  I
could feel her ribs, and I made a mental note to fatten her up a
bit.  I had not held a woman in my arms since '57, and I was
overcome with lust.  She kissed me, passionately, and I kissed
back, relishing feelings I had not felt for years.  Then she was
pulling my nightshirt up and begging me to use her.

I made to put her on her back, to service her in the usual way,
but she got up on her hands and knees, throwing back the
bedclothes, and presented her behind to me.  I felt the lips of
her womanly cleft, covered with silky short hairs, and tried to
insinuate my tumescent organ between them, but without much
success. "Wrong hole, Sir," she whispered.  She reached back and
guided the tip of my tool toward the anal orifice.  I recoiled.
"Major Fairfax, Sir, why do you hesitate?"  she said.  "I put
some butter on it, to make it easier for you." You must
appreciate what a shock this was to me.  Buggery, sodomy, is a
capital crime in the British Army.  I had never thought of using
a woman in such a way. "Please, Sir," she said.  "I want to give
myself to you.  I want to please you." "Is this how men have used
you?  They place their organs there?"  I fingered the buttered
orifice.

"Isn't that what all men do?  I have known only my brothers, and
one friend of my father's, but I had supposed that husbands and
wives couple so.  I have seen dogs in the street mount a bitch as
my brothers mounted me."

"MC," I tried to explain, "that is the wrong hole.  Here --" I
fingered her maidenly cleft, "is where I should plant my seed."
She was silent for some moments, as I stroked her, as my Hindu
concubine had taught me, and felt her nether lips respond and
dampen.

"Mmmm.  That is nice, Sir, but surely, with an organ the size of
yours, you could never put it inside the hole where I make water.
 It is too small."

"Let me see," I said.  I got out of bed and put a log on the
fire, to take some of the chill off the room.  I lighted a candle
and held it close behind her, as she patiently stayed there on
the bed, with her rump in the air.  With my fingers, I explored
the cleft, expecting to find, perhaps, an unusually tough
maidenhead.  Gently, I parted the inner lips and peered into the
pinkness of her sex.  To my surprise, I found that, in fact, her
womanly sheath was very small.  I could not insinuate a finger,
and when I tried, with more force, MC cried out and begged me not
to hurt her.  To a certainty, this woman was a virgin.

I put the candle on the bedside table and tried to think, even as
I pressed gently between her legs.  My manly tool raged tall,
lusting to be satisfied, but, clearly, there was nothing for me
to do.  Even if my moral sensibilities had not forbidden my
deflowering an innocent virgin, it was a physical impossibility
for me to sheath my sword in her minute vagina. And yet, the
alternative presented to me was, it seemed, equally impossible,
morally repugnant.

"Sir," she said softly.  "I am ready, whenever you are." Her
delicate fingers tried to guide my organ toward her anal opening.
May The Almighty forgive me; lust overcame conscience, and I
thrust against her.  After a second's effort, my organ slid into
her warm back channel.  It felt so good!  Shamelessly, I thrust
deep, then partially withdrew, to and fro, reveling in the tight
warmth of her, and the incredible deliciousness as her muscles
gripped my shaft.  Too soon, I expelled my seed into her. For a
moment, I was overcome with guilt, for I had ravished a virgin. 
And yet, I had not.  And there could be no scandal, no love
child, for, in truth, she was still a virgin!   MC thanked me for
my attentions, thanked me!  I put her on her back and thanked her
as best I could, by performing cunnilingus, another secret of the
mysterious East.

Needless to say, I did not send MC away.  She stayed on, to help
Mrs. Trumble.  It was so nice to have her around the house,
sometimes singing in that strange north-country accent of hers.
When Mrs. Trumble sickened, MC was an invaluable nurse.  When the
old woman passed on to her reward, in August, MC was promoted to
become the new housekeeper, to be paid the same as Mrs. Trumble
had been.  Of course, as head housekeeper, she is entitled to be
called, "Mrs. Stewart," though she is, in actuality, Miss
Stewart.

I had not, since that first night, permitted MC in my bed, though
she was willing enough to come, had I asked.  Somehow, shame, and
the fear of discovery, had held my appetites in check. However,
as soon as the watchful Mrs. Trumble was in the churchyard, Mrs.
Stewart and I were overcome by debauchery. I have become a
confirmed sodomite.  Several times a week, sometimes even in the
middle of the day, since no one can observe, Mrs. S. will confess
to me that she has transgressed. Perhaps she has spilled the tea,
or dropped a book and lost my place, or failed in the performance
of one of her usual duties as my housekeeper.  Well, of course,
she must be punished, which she implores me to do, that she might
be forgiven.

Somehow, in the context of my duty to discipline her, I can
forget that I commit a mortal sin.  It is always the same; she
has prepared herself by cleansing her bowels and lubricating the
orifice.  She bends over the table, or the arm of my chair, or
the foot of the bed.  I throw her skirts over her head.  The
beautiful globes of her behind are presented to me -- she has
filled out a bit, with careful feeding -- and I spank them, or
even cane her, which excites her terribly.  Inevitably, as the
ultimate punishment, I beat her with my meaty club, burying my
pillar in her forbidden pit, to our mutual relief. She dares not
sleep in the dead woman's room, so she shares my bed.  Oft times,
late at night, or even in the morning, I will devote myself to
licking her naked body, all over, as if to bathe her with my
saliva.  Her little breasts, still girlish, are a perfect
mouthful, and, when I lave her lower labia with my tongue, the
taste of her juices is heavenly to me.  She tells me I make her
utterly content, and I have never been happier, never in my
lifetime.

I have, from a physician in London, a mahogany case.  It contains
a graduated set of ebony rods, ranging in diameter from one
eighth inch to an inch and a half.  It is a medical appliance,
specifically manufactured and widely used, I am told, to treat
conditions such as the vaginal inadequacy of Mrs. Stewart.

All day, as she works in the kitchen or garden, my housekeeper
carries within her, there, between her legs, one of the ebony
rods, which I personally remove at night and replace in the
morning.  Already, she can contain the seven-eighths inch
diameter rod, and tomorrow, perhaps, I will try to insert the
one-inch rod.  It will not be long before I will be able to
couple with her as God intended.

The question is: will I want to?  My intellect can rationalize
our unnatural relationship as long as the natural sex act is
impossible.  Would it be fair to Mrs. S. to use her like a common
whore?  Dare I to expose her to the risk of a scandalous
pregnancy?  I think not.  Dare I risk the possibility of her
marrying one of the young lads she encounters when shopping in
the village?  I think not.

I think that, perhaps, tomorrow, I will "forget" to insert any
ebony rod at all.  May God forgive me.


                         -- The End --


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