Sydney’s free settlers had limits, a regular blind eye was turned to the biblical invocation: Judge not, that ye be not judged. So, when it came to the likes of Brigid O’Sullivan, polite society couldn’t help itself: all freed convicts were skilamalink, but the Irish were beyond the pale.

It was just as well the great and good didn’t know the half of it. The next stop for those who shaked a flannin of Sydney’s establishment was Port Arthur. Brigid had heard the rumour: the Tasmanian convict superintendent was renowned for his sadism. 

Best then that the naive Protestants kept on assuming Irish meant Catholic; there was no upside from drawing attention to her name’s provenance, nor the actual meaning of beyond the pale. Fortunately the well-read would have been aware that way back in the twelfth century, Gerald of Wales had suggestionized that dedicated Kildare nuns keep a perpetual fire burning in honour of Saint Brigid. 

But, in truth, the scuttlebutt amongst convicts and servants that Brigid O’Sullivan was a witch had greater proximity to reality. Gerald’s use of the word nun was deceptive: more importantly, he’d accurately noted the site’s foundation as a temple of the goddess Brigid. Though he wasn’t aware of the fact that the Irish Brigidine sisterhood, who’d dedicated themselves to keeping those temple fires burning, had actually modelled themselves on other traditions, namely the women who attended the temples of the Roman goddess Vesta and the Greek goddess Hestia. 

In London, attracted by the explosion of steam scientific endeavour, Brigid’s emotions had gotten the better of her. The end result of letting her guard down was transportation to the colonies in leg irons. A mistake she'd resolved never to repeat. So on every day and in every way, the eponymous wolf of the pagan Goddess Brigid took care to clad herself in the sheep’s clothing of the Christian Saint. 

While she consequently knew there was much Maude needed to umble-cum-stumble before she entered Lady Elizabeth George’s service, there were many things Brigid wouldn’t reveal; no need to risk a trip to the Port Arthur penitentiary for one or both of them.  

Simply being the jammiest bit of jam had gotten Maude started on taking the egg. Brigid had been stunned to observe the Governor’s wife permitting a harlot’s finger into her cloven inlet. Though not at all surprised by her ladyship’s subsequent pleasure gush. Maude, under her tutelage, had a well-developed aptitude for the Sapphic arts, more so than anyone else she’d assessed for the Brigidine novitiate. 

That instantaneous connection between Maude and her ladyship had Brigid recalling, bitter sweetly, her own friendship, on arriving in London, with Sarah Barnard. But, whatever the strength of Michael Faraday’s science, the righteous vengeance of his Sandemanian faith was stronger. Theft of scientific apparatus was the trumped-up charge that got Brigid transported. She wouldn't be returning to England anytime soon, the accusation of indulging in the so-called unnatural sins of the flesh was in abeyance. That would bring another reckoning upon her if she once again crossed Faraday’s path. 

Lady Elizabeth’s initial regard for Maude had apparently grown. The case of clothing she’d sent demonstrated that her ladyship wouldn’t even put her new lady’s maid to the usual trouble of those entering service and make her acquire her own indoor and outdoor dresses. 

The garments were lightly patterned and of sober colours, mainly blacks and blues, which, as Brigid explained to the disappointed Maude, had been carefully chosen. They were more than a step or two above a scullery maid but not so butter upon bacon to be totally unbecoming and, as a servant, actually be mistaken for a lady. Maude’s smile returned on reading Elizabeth’s subtle letter: her ladyship would be most appreciative if Maude found herself able to supply her own corsets and whatever undergarments she deemed necessary.

Two weeks later a carriage had called to take a wide-eyed Maude from the pohm side of the Tank Stream, through the grand Georgian administrative buildings a previous Governor–Macquarie–had driven the convicts to erect, and up the incline to the Governor’s mansion. Brigid’s last words still rang in her ears. “Henceforth, Lady Elizabeth is your Mistress. Nothing else matters; you must totally focus on being of service to her.”

Subsequently, Maude had enthusiastically set about her duties and hadn’t laid eyes on her former mistress until that historic day in storied annals of the world’s greatest Empire: the Governor of New South Wales had opened the valve of the steam apparatus Brigid had designed, and commenced the world’s first ever, labour saving, mechanised flogging on Sydney’s Hyde common. 

Brigid, unobtrusively sitting in the cheap seats, away from the official party had been proven correct. She’d advised her Ladyship that no convict would dream of showing pain. So it had transpired, the spectacular, yet more subdued than the traditionally powerful lashes of the cat-o-nine-tails, were met with the usual equanimity by each and every man flogged that day. Both Brigid and the Governor were most grateful for both the copious blood and the absence of overacting.

As always, the next morning, the cockatoos were up and at it first. But Lieutenant-General Sir Richard George tightly squeezed his eyes shut: defying the mafficking parrots’ morning routine. But any chance of further sleep was then sundered by a knock on the door of her ladyship’s dressing room. Who would have the audacity? That question was answered by his wife. “Enter, Maude.” 

Maude bounced into the bedroom, the morning paper in her hand. “Begging your pardon, sir. Begging your pardon, your ladyship. It’s the Sydney Morning Herald, sir.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good, sir. Very good.” Maude passed him the morning paper and watched the smile breaking out on the Governor’s lips, then on his wife’s as she read the paper’s positive reaction to the trial of the steam flogger over his shoulder. 

“Pardon me, sir.”

“More, Maude?”

“Begging your pardon, sir. The editor’s requested a follow-up discussion. Your aide-de-camp has provisionally accepted on your behalf. In an hour if you are willing.”

“Certainly am; inform him I’ll be down presently. Mention to the butler: just a simple breakfast. You’re a wonderful addition to the household, Maude.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Maude curtseyed before scurrying downstairs to get the Governor’s morning started. 

Quickly coming to enjoy the confidence of her Ladyship and therefore the Governor had resulted in Maude having a mixed reputation downstairs. For the senior members of the household–the aide-de-camp, butler, and cook–her capacity to bridge the couple’s private life and public responsibilities made their duties much less of a fifteen puzzle. Especially as Maude had no airs and graces, absolutely no podsnappery about others’ household status. 

But the more junior members of the household were much less enthuzimuzzy: they couldn’t imagine how such a young ex-convict could have quickly risen above their own status in life. Maude had no intention of ever letting them get so much as an inkling of how that’d come about; she always took care, after the Governor had decamped to his breakfast repast, to double-lock the only door connecting the bedroom suite from the rest of the house. 

At first, Maude had focused her attention on efficiently operating the clockwork bags o’ mystery shaped cylinder, ensuring it pounded her ladyship’s quim in an increasingly satisfactory manner. But, as they had come to trust each other, the master bedroom became, sans-Master, a safe space where, ever-studious, Maude had made it her business to discover how best to maximise her ladyship’s pleasure. 

So, having locked the bedroom door, Maude shed her dress and further loosened her scarlet corset. Then she strutted peacock-like into the bedchamber, ample bosoms right on the precipice of escaping corset confinement, her scandalously scant bloomers already plastered against her sticky cloven inlet. 

When she’d got her ladyship’s rapt attention, she turned on her heel and, facing away from the bed, bent at the waist while first peeling those sticky bloomers from her quim and bruised derriere, and then sliding them down her long legs. 

Elizabeth, who’d tossed her night dress into the corner on hearing Maude lock the door, reclined naked against pillows, taking in the charming vibrant rainbow colours on her lady’s maid’s derriere, the result from spankings earlier in the week, and the glistening strand of arousal hanging from her cloven inlet. “What did the vicar preach last Sunday, Maude?”

“The sinfulness of indulging in the pleasures of the flesh.”

Elizabeth sighed; ridiculous man. She was sufficiently ennobled to have dined privately with the head of the English church. They’d talked openly; she knew why the Queen hadn’t been minded to advise parliament to add the Sapphic to the legislation banning buggery. So a Sydney vicar’s preachings couldn’t be taken as serious gospel. 

Grabbing the hairbrush on her bedside table, she slapped its wooden back into her palm. “Then what have you got to say about the state of your quim?”

“The flesh is weak, Mistress.” 

“Weak, unrepentant too, methinks. Over my knee, harlot.”

Maude unclasped her corset. Letting it fall to the floor, she cupped her bosoms in her hands and pinched her nipples, eager to display their perkiness . As she crawled kitten-like up the bed, Elizabeth could have sworn she’d heard a purr. That said she was certain, when her lady’s maid lay across her pale thighs, wiggling her puce posterior like the temptress she was, that she felt harlot’s honey smeared onto her skin. 

Elizabeth focused, there was an unblemished sliver of skin on her naughty maid’s bottom. Softly at first, the wooden slaps warmed the posterior. Then, after a short pause that built anticipation, she repetitively smacked the hairbrush hard into Maude’s taut cheek. Strong enough for the spanking sounds to disturb the cockatoos in the gum trees outside, and for pale skin to quickly redden, a rawer colouring than the rest of her bruised posterior 

Her Ladyship could feel more of Maude’s arousal leaking onto her own lady jane. She inhaled the scent of their sexes now pervading the room. With her other hand, she reached for the bag o’ mystery shaped toy she’d earlier wound up, and, without ceremony, thrust it deep into her harlot’s sopping cloven inlet. Turning the contraption on, she upped her hairbrush’s spanking-speed to match the timing of the toy as it pummelled her now whimpering harlot’s quim. 

“Oh God, Mistress.”

“Sacrilegious too, harlot.” A bead of sweat dribbled down her cleavage as Elizabeth forcefully batty-fanged the fiery red flesh.  

That pulsing toy in her quim combined with the spanking pain seeping deep into her flesh brought Maude to the precipice. “Mistress, please.” 

Elizabeth’s hand reached down, her finger and thumb rolling Maude’s button in that special way she’d learnt from experience at Brigid’s workshop. “Yes, harlot.” 

Whimpering turned into a primal scream. Her lady’s maid quim began shuddering. The pleasure gushes soaked both of their cloven inlets. 

Maude lay there recovering her breath, luxuriating in her ladyship’s fingers as they traced patterns on her sensitive skin. Then she slid off the bed, kneeling reverently between Mistress’s spread thighs. Elizabeth was, as always, entranced; no one, not even her husband, had ever so much as glanced at her lady jane. Apparently private parts weren’t at all proper, yet how could that be right given the frisson she felt from seeing Maude transfixed by her oozing quim and her curls matted with their mixed honey?

Up to a few weeks previously the idea of tipping the velvet, as Maude called it, was well beyond her ladyship’s comprehension. But now she’d let herself indulge in those heavenly sensations, she wondered, in her private moments, if she’d actually become the only woman in the whole of the Empire who’d forsaken the path of righteousness. 

But, petting Maude’s hair, she lay back against the pillows, embracing who she’d become. She overdosed on the exquisite sensations as Maude’s tongue tip traced between her quim lips and wiggling into her folds. That probing, the agile softness, it was all so deliciously different, totally unlike the steeliness of the Governor and, indeed, the windup toy.  

Her pleasure rose, they both felt it. So Maude began licking up through her velvet wetness, always ending up at her ladyship’s button. Teasing at first but then she lavished single-minded attention on that sensitive spot. Aiming, as always, for her Mistress to explode with pleasure. 

Which happened. Hips arching, Elizabeth mashed her cloven inlet against her harlot’s face. The scream out-mafficked the parrots outside. Her quim quivered in ecstasy. The pleasure gush fed her maid who swallowed every drop as if it was the nectar of the Gods. 

As always they cuddled, softly kissing, their fingertips brushing across each other’s skin. Then they bathed together replete with giggles, sharing the morning's last intimate moments. As, once dressed, on stepping downstairs to commence the day’s engagements, their presentation to the world was, without exception, that of an ennobled Lady assisted by a maid who knew her place. 

The next morning, Maude immediately headed upstairs on seeing the Governor was once again partaking in an early breakfast. But for once Elizabeth was out of bed and perusing her wardrobe. 

“No need to lock the door. We’re off to see Miss Brigid. The Sydney Morning Herald has the Governor in a flight of fancy.”

“The flogging machine?” 

“Non, ma petite. La Française.” 

“Merde.”

“Language, Maude. You know the rules.”

“Pardon, my Lady.”

“A French boat has been sighted.”

Maude couldn’t immediately see the connection between a French boat and Miss Brigid. “Really, my Lady. Permit me to tighten your corset?”

“The pale blue dress today.”

After Maude had collected her Ladyship’s rain napper, and assisted her into the carriage, she perched on a newly installed side seat slightly behind her ladyship as the horse trotted down the hill from the Governor’s lodgings and across Sydney town. Her nose crinkled at the stench emanating from Tank Stream, the first time she’d ever noticed that pungency.

“The French boat, your ladyship?”

“Steam riverboat, steam spankers. No stone unturned. If it comes to collie shingles with the French, an Englishman is duty bound to explore all options to batty-fang them.”

“But Miss Brigid is Irish?”

“Then I’ll just have to be at my most persuasive.”

Somewhat none the wiser, Maude assisted her Ladyship from the carriage. They were warmly greeted by Brigid in the workshop office, who was, as always, dressed in Dutch-style knickerbockers and a leather jerkin. 

“Your Ladyship, Maude. Let me present Nellie.” Both the new arrivals' jaws journeyed towards their décolletage. 

Lady George had become accustomed to, indeed delighted in, Maude’s couture: unique steam-pressed corsets, barely up to the task of constraining ample bosoms, and bloomers that were scandalously petite. So she was untroubled by Nellie’s equally shameless cream corset and the wisp of plain cotton that apparently passed for bloomers in this part of town. What flabbergasted Elizabeth was the stunningly exotic contrast between the simplest clothing colouring and her rich ebony skin. “You seem to have replaced Maude with another taken from the jammiest bit of jam.”   

Nellie curtsied low, her fulsome décolletage jiggling attractively, “Your ladyship. Thank you.”

She then turned to Maude. With the slightest of smirks crossing her face, she bobbed in a cheeky half-curtsy. “Your harlot-ship.”

Maude giggled, and half curtsied in return. “Take one to know one, tart.”

“Were you aware, jezebel, that Miss has perfected the steam Sybian?” 

“Please, my lady, may we absent ourselves while our betters discuss matters well beyond our comprehension?”

Lady Elizabeth and Miss O’Sullivan glanced at each other. They shook their heads; Maude so comprehended more than the traditional maid would ever admit to.  

Her ladyship’s nod set off a giggling Maude and Nellie. They raced each other out the door towards the back of the workshop. Brigid poured tea into her only fine china cups. “Decorum is still a work in progress, I see. But I dare say we’ll be undisturbed for a while.”

“Indeed. I tolerate that in private as Maude certainly knows her place in public. You’ve trained her well.”

“Nellie too, I think. Her parents succumbed to the fever. I’ve taken her under my wing; she’s a free woman, but, in reality, her situation is more burdensome than an ex-convict.”

“Did you know the Governor’s under pressure to ban mixed relationships?”

“Unworkable methinks. Nine out of ten convicts are men. Free settlers arrive in pairs. Nellie’s father not reoffending was occasioned by settling down with her mother.”

“I’ll remind him of that; he believes Sydney’s only way forward is for convicts to become good citizens.”

“I agree. Any issues with the flogging machine?”

“No; a remarkable success, thanks to you.”

“You’re too kind. In truth, your husband deserves the credit. This side of town appreciates it.”

“Thank you. Now more immediate business. We understand an armed French boat was close to Port Arthur.”

“They won’t cause trouble given the garrison there.”

“True. But the south of the mainland is uninhabited. The Governor is worried the Sydney Morning Herald will undermine him by sabre rattling about Nouveau Paris du Sud.”

“Actually there are indigenous communities thereabouts.”

“Really. How can you be sure?”

“Um … well just between you and I?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been building a steam-powered dirigible.”

“A what?”

“A flying machine. Nellie and I successfully travelled down to the southern coast, testing the dirigible. She speaks her mother’s tongue.”

“What a bricky woman you are. It’s here in the workshop?”

“No; too public. I’ve hidden it away up the Parramatta river.”  

“Even so, the French will pay scant regard to the natives.”

“The English?”

“Touché. Though we’re not as unreliable as the French. Or the Spanish. Or …”

“Don’t ever ask for an Irishwoman’s opinion on that. Defence of territory is always easier with the locals on your side. I happen to know of free women who’ve moved down that way who could assist. That necessitates a dirigible trip.”

“I’ll join you. My husband can let it be known I’ve had an attack of the vapours.” 

“Normally I’d be delighted. But …”

“I know you’re not bang up to the elephant. We’ll just have to trust each other.”

“It was trusting a woman that got me transported.”

“I take it these women are Sapphic. Is that all that troubles you?”

“No. I was named after the Goddess, not the saint. They follow the Goddess, which will help as the natives aren’t Christian.”

“Dear God. No one else can ever know that.”

“Including the Governor?”

“You have my word.”

“If Maude travels too, you’ll both come to know more than is good for you.”

“I’m not without influence with the Governor. I know what not to tell him. And I’ll protect Maude. Talking of whom, shall we see what mischief the jammiest of the jam are up to?”

Brigid held the door open allowing her ladyship to step into the humid atmosphere of the back room. Having quickly become accustomed to the scent of burning wood, Elizabeth’s senses  focused on the more delicious musky scents of female quims. 

She noticed a firebox feeding steam to a wheel, which, as it turned, thrust two phallic objects–one rising, one falling–up and down; by turn impaling Maude’s cloven inlet and sliding out of Nellie’s and then impaling Nellie as it exited from Maude. 

Both women were totally dishevelled, hair plastered against their faces, breasts having long ago bounced free from the confinement of their loosely tied corsets. Maude’s nipples seemed unusually ruddy, the why became apparent when Nellie twisted both nipples between fingers and thumbs. Maude screamed; her pleasure gush soaking the kangaroo leather saddle from which the thrusting phallus protruded. 

While it was a feast for the senses, Elizabeth realised she couldn’t join in. Despite being sans petticoats, her long dress and cage crinoline were an insuperable barrier for her fingers. She could only squirm, lost in a fog of lustful feelings while watching the relentless steam machine pounding Maude and Nellie’s quims. Envious of Brigid whose hand had managed to slide into her knickerbockers and whose whimpers understandably spoke to the pleasures of watching harlots overdose on pleasure. 

The twosome gushed again and again, before fatigue set in. So, after another mutual shriek of pleasure, as they limply slumped against each other, Brigid opened the steam valve and the Sybian’s pulses slowed before eventually stopping. “Nellie’s been known to pass out with pleasure. No longer capable of anything but blissful sleep.”

“You’ll be readying the dirigible this afternoon?”

“Of course. The steamboat will be here for you and Maude at first light tomorrow to ferry you up the Parramatta river.”

“Pardon me, my lady. What’s a dirigible and where are we going?” 

“A steam flying machine,” Nellie conspiratorially whispered, “The Empire’s only dirigible that includes an onboard Sybian. Does it really matter where we’re flying to?” 

Maude’s salacious smirk was the most quim quivering expression her Ladyship had ever seen. 

To be continued