Once Upon A Slut
By
Cindy May
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Cindy May
Once Upon A Slut. (previously Once Upon An Office)
Power Corrupts! A searing story set in two eras. Accountant Sir Charles Catherwood corrupted young war widows from 1915 to 1918. Inevitably one became pregnant and knew the disgrace she had brought upon herself. Almost a century later, the firm he founded still sees women as a commodity. The wheel turns full circle when another girl becomes pregnant. Unless the cycle can be broken, vulnerable young women face seduction, orgies, prostitution, and striptease.
*****
‘If you are a very sensible girl Nancy, then I think we could double your pay.’
Nancy knew her face was crimson. A moment’s thought told her that the family could live on that. She could pay the mortgage and have food for the children. She gulped.
‘Thank you, I’ll be a sensible girl, Mr Catherwood.’
‘A VERY sensible girl, Nancy.’
Nancy wanted to scream at him to get it over with and put it in her rather than torturing her by making her give her verbal consent to being – what? A prostitute, or a mother doing whatever was necessary for her children. She replied with her eyes tight shut.
‘I’ll be a very sensible girl, Mr Catherwood.’
*****
Her skirt covered her decorously. He eased it up so that her ankles were visible. By the standards that would exist before the babies that had been born in that year were dead, it was a tame pose. On the other hand, it was decidedly risqué in 1916 for a recently widowed girl from a sheltered background. The flash went off, and the ritual resumed.
‘The next button please.’
Alice gave her consent in a scarcely audible whisper.
Fifteen minutes later, her blouse was unbuttoned all the way to her waist, and her skirt had been bunched up so that her thighs were on show in the hash light of the flash powder.
*****
‘Where would you like it, Cheryl.’
She paused, and smiled up at him.
‘Up to you, wherever you would like, and I mean that.’
He bent down and whispered in her ear. She nodded and devoured his cock again frantically. It was clear that she was going for the money shot.
Benny groaned, grasped his cock, and to everyone’s delight sprayed his load all over her hair. He gasped out in explanation to the partygoers.
‘God, I’ve always wanted to do that, but my wife would never let me.’
Copyright 2011
The Moral Right of the author has been asserted. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. With the exception of the heroic stand of the Grenadier Guards at Vieux-Berquin in 1918, where names have been altered, but the events are as they really were, all Names, Characters, Places and Incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. I have changed the names of “Jack The Ripper’s victims to avoid any distress to descendants, if any, of these poor ladies who died so terribly in late Victorian London.
Author's note: Explicit scenes in this work of fiction are confined to characters who are 18 years of age or above.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Once Upon A Slut
By
Cindy May
Chapter 1
The Chauffeur slowed down and pulled in to the kerb, stopping so that the rear door of the grey painted Lanchester was opposite the girl. The door was already ajar and less than five seconds after he had stopped, the chauffeur had opened the throttle on the 5482 cc six cylinder side valve engine, and was accelerating smoothly.
In the back of the car, Jenny was handing over a thick envelope to her employer.
‘Everything’s here, Sir, everything that Mr Donovan has written in the last week.’
‘You’re a good girl Jenny, and this is for you.’
As he spoke, Charles Catherwood handed Jenny an envelope. It was thinner than the one she had given him but contained five pounds, and in 1918 that was a lot of money. Jenny hastily shoved it in her handbag and leant down to take Catherwood’s cock in her hand.
It was soft, but Jenny was used to that, and knew she needed to remedy the situation. She used her left forefinger and thumb to peel the foreskin back and stuck her tongue out to flick it across the end of Catherwood’s domed helmet. She was careful to flick it over the slit or meatus in the end of his cock, as she knew that was especially sensitive.
It would be nice if Charles Catherwood had thought to wash his cock after he had taken a piss, but Jenny was resigned to the fact that most men did not think about that. A girl, when she went down on a man, had to be used to the taste of stale piss, but it would be nice for once to suck a cock that didn’t taste of piss.
There was now a little fluid emerging from the slit, and Jenny was running her hand up and down the shaft. She was relieved to see that the cock was starting to enlarge, but she had sucked Catherwood off sufficiently frequently over the last two years to know what was necessary.
She took the rounded helmet into her mouth driving her head down until her lips bottomed out against his groin. Men liked it when a girl buried the whole of their cock in her throat, so it was a sensible thing to do. She bobbed her head up and down for a couple of minutes. Catherwood grunted.
‘God, I’m close!’
Jenny knew what that meant. She instantly sat up, and hoisted her skirt and petticoat. She had long since abandoned wearing stockings or knickers, as they merely got in the way of what she had to do, and she knew that neither Catherwood nor Donovan approved of such garments in any case.
She eased her right leg across his body, lowering her wet cunt on to Catherwood’s cock. She slid down on his cock effortlessly accommodating his full length, such as it was. It was not that Jenny was a particularly big girl down there. It was that Catherwood was barely five inches when fully aroused, but as any girl with any brains knew, you did not make adverse comments about a cock.
Compared to Donovan, whom she was now taking at least twice a day, and who was equipped like the proverbial Irish builder, it was an unimpressive tool, but of the two cocks it was by far the most important.
The difference between the two men was that with Donovan she could lie back and he would do the job. With Catherwood, she needed to do all the work or he would blame her when he failed to cum in her. Men always blamed the girl, but that was life.
After Jenny had ridden Catherwood’s cock for a couple of minutes, the chauffeur called out.
‘We’re catching up with a tram, Sir.’
Catherwood glanced out of the window. A blue and ivory liveried open-top double deck tramcar of the Bristol Tramways & Carriage Co was clattering along Staplehill Road. A large numeral, 221, in gold, ornately shaded in red, occupied the centre of the dash plate.
As the Lanchester overtook the tramcar, Jenny saw the clippie or conductress standing on the open rear platform staring through the windows of the Lanchester. Jenny had wondered whether to become a clippie, but decided that the one guinea a week wages plus a small war bonus of two shillings for a 54 hour week was less than she earned, even without allowing for the generous bonuses Catherwood paid her for her special services.
As Jenny was bouncing up and down on a man’s lap, and she was no longer a little girl, the clippie must be well aware of what was happening, and the scowl on the girl’s face was reciprocated as Jenny glared back at her. The passengers who were facing inwards on the longitudinal wooden seating did not have such a good view of what was going on, and it is doubtful if any of them spotted anything.
Just as the Lanchester passed the rear platform of the swaying tramcar, Catherwood grunted, and Jenny could feel his cock throb, which indicated he had cum in her. At first it had surprised Jenny how often the proximity of one of the blue tramcars triggered his climax.
How could any normal man be aroused by the thought of cumming in a girl next to a moving tramcar? After a while she realised that most of the cars now carried clippies instead of male conductors, and Catherwood seemed to enjoy it if the clippie had a grandstand view of the sexy spectacle.
Jenny needed to use the cars to get to and from work each morning and evening and every time she boarded a car now felt embarrassed if the clippie gave her more than the most perfunctory glance. Was the girl thinking ‘that’s the slut I’ve seen being fucked in that fancy car’, or was she envying the smart clothes Jenny could afford?
‘You were nice and wet, Jenny. Did Tom cum in you earlier?’
‘Yes Sir, about an hour ago.’
‘I like you that way, Jenny.’
‘Yes Sir.’
Jenny did not need to be told that, and on the days she was meeting Catherwood, she would flirt with her notional boss, Tom Donovan, until he told her to get her skirt up round her waist. Donovan never failed to unload in her, so that she would be soaking wet before she got into the Lanchester.
Twenty minutes after they had overtaken tramcar No 221 Jenny was dropped off about three minutes walk from the munitions plant where she worked as secretary to Tom Donovan. He would probably fuck her again in the late afternoon, so she would go home to her mother-in-law and the kids with two men’s semen in her.
With the end of hostilities a few days previously, the dread that the wife of every serviceman had of receiving a telegram that said “I regret to have to inform you…” was receding. It would be good when her husband John was home, and she no longer had to fuck Donovan or Catherwood.
She wanted to become an ordinary wife again, and hoped that her husband never got to know what she had been compelled to do to keep her head above water financially as wartime inflation tore the family finances apart.
Jenny did not like Donovan, but detested Catherwood with a fierce intensity. He had lured her into becoming what was in effect his personal prostitute, offering her to Donovan and to anyone else that could be useful to him. Catherwood was, in her opinion, a bastard, but she was just a stupid unimportant woman, and important people had a different opinion.
Over an area stretching from the Bristol Channel to the Cotswolds, Sir Charles Elliott Catherwood was known as a man of impeccable financial probity. This was only to be expected, as he was a Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants, a director of two shipping lines and three small railway companies and the managing director of an important plant that produced gas shells for the Western Front.
Such was his contribution to victory that he had been knighted for his war work in April 1917. With growing affluence, even before the start of the Great War, he had decided that politics would advance his prospects and with the Liberal landslide election in 1906, the Tories were history for a generation at least, so the Liberals were the party for an ambitious young businessman to support.
He had met Lloyd George, the dynamic premier in the last two years of the war, and knew that an early election was in the great man’s mind. Hit the electorate when they had cause to feel gratitude to you for smashing the wicked Huns. Readjustment would be painful, and the poison gas plant on the outskirts of Bristol was stopping production of gas shells as soon as possible, as there would be no one to use the damn things on.
They could lay off most of the women workers, but you could not cut off all costs and he needed to find some new role for factory buildings that were not yet two years old. Some of the women had been apprehensive about what would happen to them, but they could adapt. A woman, if she was young and pretty, had other ways to earn her keep than in filling shells.
Catherwood disliked unions and shop stewards and workers representatives, but the man who represented the workforce was a ‘man’ in the real meaning of the word. When industrial action had been threatened over a war bonus, Charles Catherwood had invited Tom Donovan into his office.
After a long discussion it was agreed that the national interest demanded steady production, so that became policy. The shop steward received a substantial bonus for his clarity of vision, and accepted with alacrity the offer of a secretary to help with his paperwork.
Jenny, for such was the young lady, was an attractive redhead, and Charles Catherwood knew from first hand that she would be solicitous for the welfare of her new boss. She had been Catherwood’s secretary at the munitions plant since it opened. Before offering her to Tom Donovan, Catherwood had called her into his office.
When told of her new duties, Jenny was bright enough to realise that retaining her job depended on looking after her new boss in the right way. She also agreed to pass on a copy of every letter she typed to Catherwood.
Jenny had left his office with a new job, a welcome pay rise that was not just a War Bonus (which would evaporate when conditions returned to normal), and a clear understanding of what her duties were and where her loyalties lay. She also had a pussy that was leaking cum down her thighs, but Jenny had rarely left his office in any other state, so that was nothing special.
It was a splendid arrangement. Charles Catherwood would know everything the union was planning before they knew it themselves. Tom Donovan would keep union demands within reason, and stamp on any hotheads, and with the letters that Jenny was passing on to him, troublemakers could be removed with surgical precision.
He and Donovan were now on ‘Charles and Tom’ first name terms, and Tom clearly found Jenny to be perfect for the job. Whatever happened, Tom knew he would keep his job and his secretary. As to the women employed in the factory, Tom had cracked a joke, that instead of filling shells, it might be the girls who would be getting filled.
As Charles Catherwood looked forward to Christmas 1918 which was just a month off, he was a contented man, with a wife, two daughters and a son, and he was not yet fifty. A considerable number of his contemporaries were now lying in far-away fields, which was very sad. Sir Charles had said on many occasions how much he would have liked to join the lads at the front.
The problem was that when the Military Service Act was passed in 1916, which introduced conscription, the work that he was engaged on was so important that his call-up was repeatedly deferred. It was all very sad, but everyone agreed that his work was so vital to the allied war effort that sending such an important man off to the trenches would not be in the national interest.
As everyone knew, any reasonably fit man could hold a rifle and charge German machine guns and barbed wire, but it took someone of vision, who was experienced in business, and was of impeccable honesty, to manage a major munitions plant.
Chapter 2
Charles Catherwood had been born in Clifton, a fashionable part of Bristol in 1869 and after leaving school at the age of eighteen had served a five years articled clerkship to Sir William Peat, who headed one of the most prestigious firms of chartered accountants. The office was in Ironmonger Lane, London, just south of the Guildhall.
Catherwood had not received a penny for his labours, but in those days, admission to articles was a great honour, and be it said, a road to riches, once the five year articles were concluded. Admission as an Associate of the Institute of Chartered Accountant then beckoned.
Like many of the young men training to be solicitors, barristers or accountants in late Victorian London, Catherwood thoroughly enjoyed his time in the City. It was the ‘Gay Nineties’, the word ‘gay’ then having its traditional meaning of lively and exuberant. Charlie, as his colleagues called him, lived life to the full.
A fashionable young man, he travelled to work on the cramped coaches of the North London Railway, disembarking at Broad Street Station, and had a short walk to work. He habitually wore a grey cutaway coat, a grey topper with a silk band, and with a cane and a buttonhole, thought himself quite a dandy.
One a week Charlie and some of his colleagues would visit a West End show. The ‘leading ladies’ were out of the reach of young men such as Charlie, as their admirers were expected to have their own private carriages. That was something that Charlie Catherwood aspired to, but it would take a few years to get there.
It was no great problem, as there were plenty of supporting actresses who were less demanding. In their teens and early twenties, they were younger, fresher and prettier, and Charlie Catherwood wondered at the stupidity of ‘his betters’ in preferring leading ladies who, if not exactly fading, were not as good as a twenty year old who was on the way up.
He wondered if they performed better than a twenty year old, when the evening got to the physical side, but from his experiences, doubted it. Even though they were not as expensive as a leading lady, Charlie Catherwood’s allowance from his parents in Bristol would not stretch to a ‘supporting’ actress every evening.
Fortunately there was an alternative. The City of London was the richest place on the planet, but just a short distance to the east were the slums of Whitechapel. A poverty stricken working class area, Whitechapel was home to countless dockers, porters, coalmen, labourers, carmen and other lowly paid workers.
Often smitten with large families in an era before birth control was a serious possibility, their daughters found work as milliners, match girls, seamstresses and domestics, for which there was an insatiable demand.
Whitechapel was also renowned for its tarts. As Sir Charles Catherwood sipped a glass of port after an excellent meal on his return from his assignation with Jenny in Bristol, he recalled partaking of one especially delicious Whitechapel tart. Unlike the Bakewell Tart, for which Mrs Beeton had given a recipe as far back as 1861, the Whitechapel tart was a different dish altogether.
Aged from twelve to her forties, and available as a blonde, brunette, redhead, and usually white, but with other exotic options available such as ‘Chinee’, the Whitechapel tart lived in the teeming slums of Whitechapel. With the docks of the Port of London to the South, and the brick viaducts of the Great Eastern Railway stomping across the district, it was an eerie place at night.
In 1888, about a year after Charlie had moved to London to serve his articles, the Metropolitan Police had estimated that there were around 1200 prostitutes ‘of very low class’ active in and around Whitechapel. Many worked at the sixty-two brothels that were known to the Metropolitan Police to exist in close proximity to one another in Whitechapel.
Customers ‘in the know’ could visit the girls there, but not every customer knew of these useful places, so many of the girls would go to the local pubs, and there was one on almost every street corner in Whitechapel. Respectable women, even working class women, did not visit pubs on their own in the 1880s, so it was easy to work out what an unaccompanied girl in her teens or early twenties with a ready smile was about.
The landlords knew all about the single ladies who walked through the door and often left a few minutes later with a gentleman friend who had just happened to turn up, but it was no business of theirs. That was not quite true, as the girl would probably buy a drink when she came in. If she didn’t, the landlord might speak to her to say that her presence would be unwelcome in the future.
Likewise, gentlemen who came to the pub would be expected to buy a drink and not just to look over the talent on offer. A gent who overlooked that courtesy might find he was no longer welcome. As the landlords had to deal with drunken sailors who could be handy with a knife, few ‘gents’ argued when a landlord in Whitechapel had something to say to them.
At night, Whitechapel was an eerie place. The gas lamps gave off precious little light and were well separated, so pedestrians hurried from one feeble pool of illumination to the next, and then to the one beyond.
That was on a clear day, but from October to the next April, clear days were rare. There were five hundred steam engines based at nearby Stratford on the Great Eastern Railway, making it the busiest engine shed in the British Empire. Engines came in from all over East Anglia as well.
There were thousands of coal fires burning in every house in Whitechapel. Ships were belching out smoke on the river, and there were factories beyond number, all needing heat and power. Coal powered the economy, and smoke from the coal that was burned in prodigious quantities belched into the atmosphere.
Except on a windy day when it was torn away, it hung like a grey cloud over the East End, the soot particles darkening the drab bricks of the GER viaducts, and of the houses and factories. When fog crept in off the river, the damp fog and the soot particles embraced one another in a union more powerful that a Whitechapel tart and her gentleman.
In later times they called it smog, but it was evil and poisonous. Bronchial conditions abounded and people, including the local tarts, groped their way through the filthy murk coughing and spluttering.
Until the formation of the Metropolitan Police, it was unsafe for a gentleman to step out after dark, as footpads prowled the streets. A weighted stick, a sudden pounce and a gentleman would awake with a splitting headache, a scalp wound, and to find his pockets had been rifled. If the thief was too exuberant, he might not wake up at all.
Better policing and a few hangings had made the streets safe. Charlie Catherwood appreciated this, as no one likes to think they are in danger. Charlie had arrived in London in late 1887 and shortly after he started work at Ironmonger Lane on the way to becoming an accountant, he visited Whitechapel for the first time.
Evening was the best time to pick up a Whitechapel tart. Some would take you to a brothel or a single sordid room, but a back lane, an alleyway or even the stairwell on some crowded tenement would suffice for a hasty coupling that need not take more than three or four minutes.
Sixpence was more than enough to buy one of the ageing forty-something drunken whores, and if they were desperate, as they usually were, perhaps half that was sufficient. Charlie’s first whore cost him 4d.
She took him down a narrow lane, but then things went wrong. She was not an honest whore, but a decoy, and Charlie handed over two pounds to a pair of bullies. He left a wiser man, and next time he went out, he took a long knife with him in his pocket. If a bully tackled him again, the bully might not like what happened.
A few of the women were good, some were rubbish and a few were thieves like his first woman. Polly Jones was a forty-something whore living in George Street in Spitalfields. Her youth had long since faded, but she was cheap and a fuck was a fuck. Polly knew all about back lanes, alleyways or stairwells, as she regularly put them to good use. In the early hours on Tuesday 3 April 1888, Polly got back to her lodgings in agony.
She gasped to the lodging house woman that she had been attacked so another lodger took her to London Hospital where she died. When she was examined the surgeon was horrified to find that a blunt object had been rammed into her vagina so violently that it had ruptured her peritoneum. Who killed her in such a bizarre way or why was unknown.
Thirty nine year old Sally Smith was the next to die. A heavy drinker who had been deserted by her husband, she was always hard up. Sally would part her legs for sixpence. One evening in August 1888, Sally found a customer in the Angel and Crown near George Yard. They left. Her body was found on a first floor landing in a nearby building in the early hours of the following day. Her lower clothing was disarranged and she had thirty-nine stab wounds.
Emma Jacobs was of Jewish descent, also in her forties, also a drunk, and separated from her husband. She died later that August, and her murder was terrifying. Her throat was cut, but the murderer had not stopped at that, as there were a series of deep slashes and stab wounds to her abdomen.
‘Dark Annie’ Woods was next to go in early September. Another drunk with a failed marriage, prostitution was the way she supported herself. She was found partially disembowelled and public anxiety mounted.
Fat Rose Dawson and Alice Maynard both died on 30 September 1888. Fat Rose was not mutilated, possibly because her murderer was disturbed, but for Alice, the results were grotesque. England was in a furore! Although all the women to die were Whitechapel tarts, women throughout London stayed indoors if they could afford to as dusk fell.
Many could not afford that luxury, and if you were a Whitechapel tart, and therefore at any real risk, you had no choice. The customers were in the pubs, so you went there to find them or perhaps to find ‘The Ripper’, as the papers had dubbed the fiend who was stalking Whitechapel by night.
Some of the girls or women Charlie met were common and well past their prime, but that could not be said of Mary Riley when they first met in October 1888. She was a pretty Irish colleen, as many of the Whitechapel girls were. The Irish, the Jews and Russians had flocked into the East End in the late nineteenth century in the hope of finding a better life.
The native accents of the East End existed cheek by jowl with the lilting Irish brogue from Tralee or Galway. The best part of a decade would elapse before the celebrated Irish songwriter and entertained Percy French wrote about the gullible Irish visitor from the Mountains of Mourne who was mesmerised by the glitter of the capital.
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street.
At least when I asked them that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
Percy’s Irishman might believe that the streets were paved with gold, but colleens such as Mary Riley knew better. Their cunts were the only things that would bring in gold, or to be more realistic, a few pence at a time.
Countless Irish girls had crossed the sea from Ireland to Liverpool or Holyhead and travelled on the purple lake and white carriages of the mighty London & North Western Railway to be decanted from the train at Euston station. A few steps under the towering Doric Arch that separated the station from London and they were confronted with the bustle of Euston Road.
Brown haired and brown eyed from their Celtic ancestors, nothing from their childhood, which some of them had barely left, in some village in Connemara or wild Donegal could have prepared them for the bustle of the greatest city on earth. If they had ever entertained hopes of finding gold in the streets or working as seamstresses, maids or cooks, ‘legitimate’ jobs proved almost as elusive as the mythical gold.
Prostitution, and that within a few days before the last of their few pennies vanished, was the only answer. Alone and fearful, disease, a string of abortions, drink, and premature ageing was what awaited most of them.
Mary was an exception. Unlike many girls who arrived at Euston in their late teens, she had come to England with her parents when she was six years old. Charlie Catherwood encountered her ten years later, when she occupied a single room in Miller’s Court in Spitalfields. Most of her neighbours were also prostitutes.
Despite her age she was an accomplished whore having started her career at the age of thirteen. Charlie met her in a pub a couple of hundred yards from where she lived. Soft round ‘bubbies’, as she called them, slender hips, shoulder length brown hair and an engaging smile meant she was a pearl amongst swine as Charlie told her, much to her amusement. She told him that he must have Irish blood in him as he had the gift of the Blarney.
Mary knew all about the Blarney stone, having been born and raised not all that far from Blarney Castle. Mary charged her customers sixpence for ‘a short time’ or a shilling ‘if Your Honour wanted to relax.’ Part way through his visit, Charlie changed from a sixpenny client to a shilling client.
Charlie decided that she was an enchanting girl, and unlike the drunks he had been with in the past, was sober, cute and very sexy. He started to visit her regularly at her single room in Miller’s Court. One evening when he arrived there, she was occupied with a customer who had paid her five shillings, (25p). It was an absolute fortune, but he intended to have her for the whole night.
By coincidence, that was the night that Mary Maguire, who also lived in Miller’s Court died. The mutilations were the most gruesome to date, and hardened police officers, and the pathologist who examined her butchered remains, were sickened by what they saw.
A few days later Charlie Catherwood called to see Mary Riley. She had known the girl who had been slaughtered, as they had sometimes gone to pubs together to find customers. If she had not known Charlie, she would not have opened the door, however much she needed the money.
They agreed that Charlie would visit once a week and Mary would not accept any bookings that conflicted with their agreed times. Except when Mary was on her ‘bleed’, once a month, or recovering from one of her periodic abortions, this became their routine for the next four years.
Unless she was a superlative actress, Mary seemed to enjoy his visits, and would always throw her arms around Charlie as soon as he knocked at her door.
Chapter 3
‘Tis glad, I am you’re here, Charlie, my love. It warms a girl’s heart to have such a reg’lar friend. You give me the money, my precious, and Mary is all yours.’
Although it was business and Mary was a sensible girl sorting out the money up front, she was always welcoming. Charlie Catherwood stroked her hair as Mary kissed him and they went into her squalid room. It was just over 12 feet x 10 feet with a bed, a chair and a small table. There was a candle but no candlestick, a cracked cup sufficing. There was a smell of stale urine emanating from a chamber pot under the bed.
A fastidious man, Charles Catherwood wished that Mary was a little more particular about the room she lived in and worked from, but at least the girl did wash. Until he told her that he liked her to have other men’s cum in her before he fucked her, she even washed her pussy out.
Once she knew his preferences, she was careful to respect them, and it was rare that Mary was not carrying a load when he arrived.
‘Will it be a short visit or a relaxing one, your honour?’
Charlie held up a shilling, which Mary grabbed with glee.
‘To be sure, I’m a lucky girl. No one could be kinder that yourself.’
As she was speaking, Mary was unbuttoning the front of her dress and pushing it down. It was her only piece of finery and was more elegant than the average working class woman would wear, and more vulgar than a lady would think of wearing. Its loudness was to proclaim what she was when she was at a pub or walking the streets.
Next to go was a white petticoat, or what ought to have been a white petticoat, but it was seldom washed, and dirt from the streets of London soiled the clothes of the most fastidious lady, let alone an Irish whore. A man called Gottllieb Daimler had produced a fantastic horseless carriage in 1885, but the few people who had heard of them knew they were a flash-in-the-pan.
London was horse-powered. Tens of thousands of horses pulled tramcars, omnibuses, drays and lurries over cobbled streets. They produced thousands of tons of horse manure that dropped on to the streets and stank. In wet weather it turned into glutinous mud. In dry weather it dried out and turned to dust that got everywhere.
It got into Mary’s petticoats turning their whiteness to brown and grey. It got into her soft flesh, discolouring the virginal pinkness that had once been there. Mary lived, ate, slept, and fucked in dirt, but that was the reality of life.
Except for weird women such as Mrs Amelia Bloomer who advocated a bizarre costume of ankle length trousers worn beneath a short skirt, if you lifted up a woman’s skirts and petticoats in Victorian times, you had access to her cunt.
A few women had worn baggy garments called knickers for years, but if you were a working girl, knickers were a pointless obstacle and an expense. If you took the customer to a room, he would probably expect all your clothes to come off before he fucked you, but if, as was often the case, you took him round the back of the pub, you lifted your dress and petticoats and were ready for business.
As Mary was entertaining Charlie in her room, she completely disrobed, draping her finery over a chair. A chemise with a semi-circular neckline joined her dress and petticoats. If Charlie fucked a forty-something whore in an ill-lit back alley then all he did was open the front of his trousers. With Mary, he too could disrobe.
As soon as he had settled his clothing to his liking, and Mary knew that her better class customers were particular about such things, he turned to find a naked Mary standing next to him. She reached up with her hands to pull his face down to her level, kissing him on the lips.
She whispered.
‘I’m after thinking that Charlie wants to put his staff in my little cranny.’
‘That I do my girl, but first thing first. Kneel and worship my rod.’
The floor was of bare boards, and had not been swept for many a day, but a London whore knew better than to worry about trivia like that. If she was working in an alley or a stairwell, then lying on her back in the dirt was her lot. Mary’s room was pristine in comparison. She knelt, adding another helping of dirt to the dirt engrained in her knees.
She lifted up Charlie’s rod and kissed it on the right and on the left and then drew it into her mouth. Like every man whose rod she sucked, it tasted of stale piss, but that was a part of the job. Charlie grasped her hair tightly in his hands, forcing his rod into her mouth to its full depth.
Compared to most of her clients, he was not very big, so ‘depth’ was not a problem for her, but she had a number of very well endowed clients whose cocks she could swallow without difficulty. One thing she had learned when she had started out as a whore was that however small the client’s rod was, you did not joke about it.
Men were sensitive about such things, and the smaller their rod, the greater their ego regarding it. Men were also sensitive about getting hard, so that they could spend in a girl. A man with a soft rod was never going to come in you, and whilst he might be a hopeless loser, you could not say that. If the man who had bought you could not get hard, it was your fault.
During the limited schooling she had in Co Cork, the nuns had never thought it necessary to advise her of such important facts. Indeed they had probably never seen a cock in their entire lives. Two or three beatings early in her career, when she had suggested that it was not her fault that the man had not spent in her, had implanted that lesson firmly in her mind
Mary was relieved to find that Charlie’s rod, if not exactly hard, was heading in the right direction. He pulled a little out of her mouth, and she knew what that portended. He circled the base of his cock with his right thumb and forefinger.
A moment later Mary felt a stream of warm salty liquid splashing into her throat. As usual Charlie was peeing in her mouth. She knew she had to swallow to keep pace with him, or she would gag and retch the damn stuff all over her bubbies and the floor. The last thing she wanted was a bath of pee, and after a couple of times when things went wrong she was now an expert.
Fortunately Charlie had accepted that when he urinated in her mouth, it had to be at a speed where she could swallow it, and a full power blast would result in her gagging. Depending on what he had eaten and had to drink, it could be relatively innocuous or quite bitter. He was increasing the rate of discharge now as he enjoyed it when she was close to gagging, but she merely opened her throat and swallowed more energetically.
Mary had never measured how much piss a man could deliver, or how many seconds he did it for, but she had a couple of customers, whom she loathed, who pissed on her face, on her bubbies and one freak even stuck his rod in her ass and pissed there. They lasted for perhaps half a minute.
Charlie, by controlling the flow with his finger and thumb let it go at a much slower rate. This made it more manageable for Mary. It meant that he could go on for two minutes releasing a steady stream of piss in her mouth, so for the next two minutes she expected to be drinking.
Although she had not asked him, Mary knew that Charlie carried a hip flask in his coat, and suspected that he had drunk copiously before he had visited her, so that he would have plenty of urine for her to swallow.
She hated swallowing his piss, but on one occasion when she had a tummy upset and had demurred, he had slapped her face and told her never to try that nonsense again. Tummy ache or not, she now drank his piss on demand.
Looking on the bright side, he paid well, and whilst she did not like drinking piss, and she doubted if any sane girl enjoyed piss, it was not as messy as the bastards who pissed on her face and bubbies. One of them was so careless than he even pissed in her hair.
That was infuriating as few normal clients wanted to go with a whore whose hair stank of urine. A girl had to throw away potentially good fucking time to wash her hair. That was the sort of customer you could do without.
Mary could understand why men liked to fuck her, but pissing in her mouth was weird. One day she asked Charlie what it was like for him, ‘so she could make it better for Your Honour’ as she explained.
Charlie told her that when a man cums, he has a few seconds of ecstasy, but that was all. If she had her lips clamped round his cock and was sucking him off when he started pissing, it was almost as good a climax but it went on for the entire time he was pissing. Instead of a climax that lasted 5-10 seconds, it lasted two minutes!
Finally, and much to her relief, Charlie’s flow of urine slackened off to a dribble. She was always glad when it was over, but for some bizarre reason, pissing in her mouth had given him a respectable hard on.
It was not the sort of erection that a girl wrote home to her mother about, if any girl did such a bizarre thing, but he could now stick it in her cranny with a reasonable chance of coming in her.
Charlie realised it was time to play, and pulled out of her mouth, a final couple of drops of piss dribbling on her bubbies. She hated that, but knew not to protest about it. She scurried over to the bed, lay on a grimy sheet that had seen many men copulating with her, and raised her legs above her head, as that was the way Charlie liked to take her.
He knelt on the bed and before his cock could go limp took it in his hand and fed it into her cunt. Having a man piss in her mouth did nothing to turn Mary Riley on, let alone get her to lubricate, but she needed to be wet for Charlie.
With practice had learned to imagine a well-endowed and handsome man pleasuring her whilst she was swallowing Charlie’s piss. ‘Dreams’ of this fantasy lover usually got her suitably lubricated, so Charlie was able to slide into a liquid cunt. She smiled at him.
‘You see how much what Your Honour does to Mary pleases her?’
‘You like drinking my piss, don’t you Mary.’
‘To be sure I do that. ‘Tis like a drop o’ Guinness from the Brewery itself. Ye should be bottling and selling the stuff, Charlie. The girls would queue up to buy it.’
As she said it, Mary’s thoughts were far different. Charlie visited her two or three times a week, so he was one of her best customers, which meant that she could expect ‘a drap of the hard stuff’ every other day, Sunday’s excepted.
She welcomed the money, but if the world was a fair place, and she did not have to spread her legs for every man who had the money to buy her, it would be nice to piss down his throat. Then he could see how he liked the drink that he was so liberal in supplying her with.
She could just feel his cock in her cunt and was relieved to see that he was holding the base of it and manipulating it with his fingers. That usually helped bring him off. She offered up a silent prayer to Mary, Mother of Mercy, that he would spend reasonably soon. If he did not, then it went on and on and on, and he would blame her.
Thankfully Charlie grunted and tugged at his rod frantically. Although Mary could not tell when he spewed a drizzle of cum in her cranny, his reactions told her that he had climaxed.
‘Charlie, my love, I can feel your hot spend in me, bathing the whole of my cranny. The little devils will be looking for the Holy of Holies to knock poor Mary up again. To be sure, you’re a naughty boy, but I love the feeling when ye do it to me, and if ye knock me up, well there’s things that poor Mary can do about that.’
If Charlie had sprayed a vast gob of cream in her, like some of her customers did, that might have been true, but the thimble full that he spent was not something that a girl mouse would have noticed let alone a grown woman. Realistically she knew that expressing her enthusiasm for his wonderful prowess pleased him.
With no protection other than a vinegar douche when she got the chance, there was a risk she could get knocked up by any customer who had her. Charlie with his pathetic spend was about the least likely man to get her banged up, but he got off on the thought that he might get her pregnant.
The sordid thought that if he did so, she would need to visit one of the back street abortionists to deal with her condition also seemed to enchant him.
Charlie pulled out of her cranny, his rod already starting to shrivel up, but Mary knew there was more to come. She lowered her legs and Charlie put his knees each side of her chest, leaning forward. She reached out to take his limp rod in her small hand and fed it into her mouth.
Her cranny juices had washed the taste of piss away when he was rutting back and forth in her, which was something to be glad of. His cock now tasted of her own juices, which did not bother Mary in the slightest. It was possible that there might be traces of his spend to flavour her juices, but it was so little that you could not detect it.
On the rare occasions when he had spent in her mouth instead of pissing in her mouth and spending in her cranny, there was the taste of a man’s cum, again salty and not to her liking, but in what she said to Charlie, any man would believe that he had bestowed on her Ambrosia from the Gods.
She spent five minutes sucking Charlie’s cock which had deflated to the size of a pencil, and only gave up when he began to feel it was becoming too much.
‘To be sure Charlie, if I were after having plenty of money, and didn’t need to charge you, I’d let you come and do this to me every single day. I love our meetings.’
‘You’re a naughty girl Mary, and that’s one reason why I like you so much.’
Chapter 4
As he had paid a shilling, Charlie had bought Mary for an hour, and even with handing over the money and getting undressed, their initial couplings had occupied less than a third of that time. Any man would need fifteen or twenty minutes to recuperate, but Charlie would expect her to keep him entertained.
That took effort, and Mary alternately blessed and cursed the bizarre paradox of nature. If they could, men would fuck non-stop, hour after hour, but after a man had spent in a girl, even if she was as pretty as Mary Riley, the best hung and most virile man was useless for at least half an hour and often an hour or more.
Women on the other had could fuck non-stop, hour after hour. The girls who worked in the brothels, sometimes referred to as slaughterhouses, would expect to service a fresh client every quarter of an hour on a busy day. A slaughterhouse girl might take fifty men in a single shift.
With no time to wash out, Mary shuddered at what state a girl’s cranny might be in at the end of such a day. It was a way to wear out a girl’s cranny fast and to pick up every disease you could think of. Mary was thankful that she was not a slaughterhouse girl.
Yes, it was weird. Man wanted it non-stop but could not do it. Girls could take dozens of men, but she had never met any girl who really wanted that. Mary, if she could have afforded it, would have liked to find a nice man and settle for him. He could have her two or three times a day if he could manage it, or once a week, and either would suit her.
Like most whores, she hoped she might find a customer who felt she was his perfect girl, and whisk her away to a life of riches and happiness, but she knew it rarely happened. For the moment she needed to think how to entertain Charlie. She found that men enjoyed it when girls like her talked of their experiences.
She remembered the time that Charlie asked the standard question.
‘How old were you Mary when you started going with men?’
Most men seemed to want to know how old a girl was when she had it for the first time. If you were a boring sixteen or seventeen, it paid to lie, but Mary had no need for that.
‘I suppose I was thirteen, give or take. My Feyther was a docker at the East & West India Docks and he had a bit of a run-in loike with the manager. He were a terrible toff, always cutting the money. T’were casual labour loike, and if the boss didn’t loike yer face, then ye didn’t even get that.’
Mary’s mixture of Irish phrases and pronunciation from her childhood, plus East End words that her father had picked up in the docks gave her the sort of polyglot speech that was common amongst girls of her class.
‘Feyther would go to work and hang around at the dock gate for hours and as loike as not he would not get in, and he’d come home and go again next day. We was starving, we was. One night, my mam came and work me up like, and told me that a gentleman wanted to be friends with me. I’d never not had a man and I knowed nothing about what he wanted to do, but Mam told me I had to do as he said and be a good girl, or she’d give me a good tanning.’
‘This man came and sat next to me on the bed and put his hand on my bubbies, and said I was a handsome young lady and was bound to make my husband very happy, but I said to him that I hadn’t not got a husband. He told me that was what he was there for, to teach me how to get a husband and if I was a very good girl I would get sixpence and my mam would get half a crown. Now, I ask you, half a crown. That’s a fortune.’
‘Mam had been there to keep me from being worried like, but she said he was a generous kind man, and I would be a bad wicked girl and the Lord would punish me severely if I did not do just as he said. Then she said she would leave us alone, so he could do what I needed to have done to me.’
‘Well, he told me to take my nightie off, but I said I would be too shy to do that and only my husband when I married might see such sights. Even then, it ought to be in the dark. He said I was quite right. When I had a husband it should only be in the dark when I took my nightie off. He said I was a clever girl, but he was here to teach me how to look after my husband once I was married, so he had to show me. When he explained it, what could I do?’
‘I did as he told me, and he said that now he could see me properly in the candle light that I was a very handsome girl. I was sure to find a foine husband, but did I know how to treat a husband right? Well, of course, I didn’t. He said that was very sad, and he was not sure if he could do anything for me.’
‘I thought that if I had a foine husband, that it would be better than what we had, what with us starving ourselves when feyther had no work, not that feyther is not a good man. I asked the gentleman to teach me.’
‘He said I would need to be a brave girl as husbands and wives took off all their clothes but it was all right as it was in the dark. If he was to teach me, it had to be in the light, so he took his clothes off, and he showed me his John Thomas and told me to hold it.’
‘Well, I was scared but what could I do? Then he told me to run my little hand up and down John Thomas and it got bigger, and then he told me to kiss John Thomas on the very top where there was a roll of skin, so I kissed John Thomas as he said.’
‘Yes, he told me ter kiss John Thomas, and that I had to roll the skin back, but I didn’t have a clue what he meant. Seems silly to think that now, don’t it? He had ter do it and there was this thing like a Peeler’s helmet. He told me ter kiss it. Now, I ask you, kiss a Peeler’s helmet? Well I did what he said, and then he told me that if I was ter be a good wife I had ter put it in my mouth.’
‘So I did and a couple of minutes later, he said I was a good girl and I was going ter make my husband very happy, but we needed to get on. He told me ter spread me legs loike, and he got on the bed and he stuck John Thomas up my pee hole. Christ, it hurt. Your know, Charlie, even now, I’m not a big girl down there, despite having taken a good few men, but then. …!’
‘I told him ter stop but he said that I was being a bad girl. He said he had to push further and it really hurt me. Then he told me that I had an abnormality and I asked what he meant? He told me that he should be able to put the whole of his stick up a girl who was well, but I had an obstruction, and when I heard that I was so scared.’
‘He said that surgeons could remove the obstruction, but it would cost me ten pounds, and that if I didn’t have it removed, I would always be ill and no one would want to marry me. Where could I get ten quid? If I got ter be a Between-Maid, and that wouldn’t be afore I were nineteen, loike I am now, I’d earn ten quid in a year, but as a skivvy I wouldn’t get half o’ that, now would I?’
‘I was gonna be ill all my life and have no husband because I couldn’t take a man’s John Thomas. When he saw me cry, he said he’d help me. He said my Mam had told him that she thought I might have an obstruction and if I was a good girl he’d do what he could. I begged him to help me, and he told me it would hurt me but it would hurt him more.’
‘I was so glad he wanted ter help, but, Lor’ it did hurt and what it must’a been loike for him, I do not know. He pushed and pushed in and out and finally the obstruction went and he got in, and there was so much blood everywhere. I was afeared I’d killed the poor man, but he said he was all right.’
‘I though that would be all but he told me he needed to put some white stuff in me, and that whenever I laid with a man, it was my duty to make sure I ended up with the white stuff. He was ramming away in me as fast as you do, Charlie, and then he made a painful expression, like you do, and grunted and I felt even wetter.’
‘He said he’d cum, and that I had the white stuff now, but whenever I went with a man, I had to work hard to get the white stuff. I said I didn’t have no plans to go with a man, but he said my Mam was going to sort me out so that plenty of men could try me out.’