Though you may find it hard to believe now, I was once a pretty girl when the bloom of youth still gilded my cheeks. I used to receive many admiring glances and love notes from the young bucks of the town when I was sitting in church on a Sunday, especially if they thought my father wasn't looking. Now I am as you see me, with white hair and wrinkled skin, although my teeth have survived the ravages of time, thank God or good fortune. Sadly my waistline betrays my fondness for too many honey and almond pastries, although there was a time when a man could girdle my waist with his two hands. It all seems so long ago now, but inside, I am still that young woman.

I was born in the great port of Kings-town, on the banks of the River Hull where it runs into the great estuary of the Humber a days sail from the sea. My father was a merchant with a fleet of three fine cogs, and a great warehouse on the waterfront. His trade was mainly in cloth, and he was well thought of by the monks of the Abbey at Meaux for offering them a good price for export of their wool. In those days there was a great demand for rich silks by the great nobles and he would send a ship to Italy once in a while. Sadly, that has all ended with the Great Pestilence, and many in Kings-town now live in penury, those that were spared, that is. Besides, there are too few sailors to man all the great vessels of the town, and they now sit idle and rotting along the banks of the river.

My father's success meant that we became very wealthy, and could afford to eat meat every day of the week, except Friday, of course. My mother was taken in childbirth not long before my eighteenth birthday, and my father decided to go to Genoa for a year to establish a presence in that fine city in order to increase the volume of his business there, being as it was, considerably more lucrative than the trade in woollen cloth. Rather than leave me at home in the care of my elderly aunts, my father decided to take me with him, with one of his widowed sisters to act as my chaperone. He said that it was because he would miss the musical sound of my soprano voice, and even my nonsensical prattlings. I thought it was more likely that he didn't trust the young men of the town – as a good business man he was sharp of eye and keen of ear, and I’m sure he had been aware of their approaches in church when they thought he was lost in prayer.

Anyway, on a fine spring day we set sail down the River Hull and out into the Humber. I had been taken on the ships many times in my childhood, though never beyond the place where we dropped the pilot, when we would disembark and take a lift with a carrier back to Kings-town. So I had long since lost my fear of the water, and I had never suffered from the sickness brought on by the movement of the ship upon the waves, unlike my mother who would go green as soon as she set foot on the deck.

It was wonderful to stand on the forecastle and watch the billowing canvas glowing white against the blue of the sky; serenaded it seemed by the calls of the busy sailors, trimming the sails to take best advantage of the wind, and the piercing cries of the gulls. My poor aunt suffered the same as my mother and rapidly disappeared below decks to the safety of her berth. I was so excited at this great adventure, free from the cloying familiarity of my home town and with the lack of caution of the young, that my father eventually had to order me below when the wind grew fresh and the vessel started to roll, for fear of me being washed overboard he said.

It took the whole of the day to reach the sea, and rather than set out on those treacherous waters at night, we anchored in the lea of the spit of land that juts out over three miles from the land, and which makes the safe haven for ships when the autumn storms blow from the north — no sensible man will venture out in winter.

The voyage took two months, and we rarely ventured far from sight of land. But at last we anchored in the straits outside Genoa, waiting for a berth to become free in the harbour. The sight of the city even from the sea was wondrous fair, so different from our home port. The buildings seemed to go on for miles, and in the rays of the evening sun they glowed with a rainbow of colours from pale green to flaming red.

My father has sent an agent ahead of us many months before to find us a suitable house in a fashionable quarter of the city — in business, he said, appearances are so important. When I first saw the house, I had to clap my hands with joy. This was the first stone-built house that I had ever seen, not at all like the timber and brick houses of England. Above the main entrance, there was a balcony with a carved balustrade, and there were statues of Greek heroes either side of the main door, which was approached by a grand staircase. Inside, the rooms were cool, and at the end of the wide passageway, doors opened onto an enclosed courtyard with a raised pool in the centre with a tinkling fountain. Up to that point I had thought that our house in Kings-town was grand, but it was no better than a hovel compared to the splendour of the palace — which is how I thought of it — that was to be my home for the next year.

The next few weeks passed uneventfully. My father was away most of the day, meeting with other merchants and agents from far away in the east. At night we would dine off silver in the great dining room, and my father would often ask me to be hostess when he entertained influential men of the city and beyond. During the day my aunt and I would venture out into the city to see the sights, either in the cool of the morning, or more often, late afternoon. The heat of the noonday was such that few ventured out of doors, and we followed their example, preferring to spend the hottest hours in the cool of our rooms, with their thick stone walls, or sitting by the fountain in the courtyard.

My story really begins, however, in early September, when my aunt fell ill and took to her bed. I was under instructions not to venture out alone, but I was a headstrong girl, and I reckoned that taking one of the servants with me was not strictly breaking the rules. So it was that one glorious Tuesday morning I found myself sitting on the low wall surrounding an ornamental fountain in one of the city’s many squares, with my servant at a respectable distance — he was of a lower class after all. I was doing nothing in particular, just enjoying the feeling of freedom, and possibly enjoying it all the more because it was slightly naughty.

I was sitting idly running my fingers across the surface of the water and daydreaming when I heard a strange man’s voice, apparently addressing me. “And what, pray, is a beautiful young lady doing here all on her own? Do you not know that it is not entirely safe for someone as fresh and lovely to go around unattended.”

I turned to see from whence the voice came, and gasped, putting my hand up to my mouth in my confusion. There just an arms-length away stood the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, so beautiful he could not be human. He was obviously a prince, dressed as he was in a gown of finest silk shot through with threads of silver and gold. His striped stockings of white and red — hose is too crude a word — fitted his shapely legs so perfectly that you could see every detail of his muscles, and on his feet were shoes so dainty they were more like ladies slippers. But best of all was his hat, set lightly on his dark curls and surmounted by a long feather at a jaunty angle.

Once I had gathered my wits, I answered him in the firmest tone I could manage, “But I am not alone, kind sir, see there is my servant over there,” and I gestured across the square to where a group of youths were playing dice, my servant among them.

“That may be so, my lady, but it will soon be getting uncomfortably warm. Why don't you come with me to my house?” And he gestured in the other direction to what truly looked to me like a palace, “And then, over a glass of chilled wine, we can get to know each other better.”

I should have done the sensible thing, I know, but I was absolutely smitten by this figure of a god, and all I could do was meekly nod my head. Within what seemed like seconds, I was in such a dream, I found myself sitting across from this dark, and unbelievably handsome stranger, sipping a glass of wine such as I had never tasted in my life, telling him my life story.

He listened very politely to my long speech, only interrupting me to say things such as “how interesting” or “how pleasant for you,” but at last my prattle petered out, and after a comfortable silence, he started to tell me a little about himself.

He was not a prince or a god, as he had seemed to me, but a member of the ruling aristocracy and younger brother to the doge, their name for the elected ruler of the city. He was about fifteen years older than me, with a young wife who had just been delivered of a baby, and was now in their house in the country, a much healthier place for a child to be brought up, he said.

After a while, Niccolo, for that was his name, looked across at the sundial in the corner of the courtyard where we were sitting and said, “It is about time we got you home, otherwise your family will be getting worried. I will send my footman to escort you and your servant safely through the streets. We can't have you coming to any harm, especially before I have got to know you properly. But perhaps you would care to join me on Friday for a light meal of fish, and we can continue this extremely pleasant discourse,” and he lifted my fingers to his mouth and kissed them delicately.

It was not until our third or fourth meeting that events took a turn for the better, or worse, it depends upon your point of view. But a dramatic turn it most certainly was. “Mia cara signorita,” he said in that gorgeous musical voice, “you are exceedingly beautiful, and I am a connoisseur of beautiful things and women, but,” and he leaned forward and gently brushed his fingers across my breasts, “such beauty should not be hidden behind muslin, or even silk. Why don't you let me take you inside to the seclusion of my boudoir, and there let me remove those ugly wrappings that conceal your perfection?”

I should have said no, and asked to be escorted back to my home, but in truth, I was totally under his spell, and I meekly let him lift me up, as easily as if I were a feather, and carry me to his room. What followed was an afternoon of such heavenly delight that it still makes my body grow warm with the memory of it, for that afternoon I ceased to be a maiden and became a woman.

He gently undressed me, and when I was naked, began to run his fingers lightly from my neck and down to my breasts. His touch was so delicate, and yet so commanding, and exquisite sensations ran from the tips of his fingers throughout my entire body. To my surprise, for it had never happened before except when I was very cold, my nipples started to harden, and when he leaned forward to suckle them, I cried out with the sheer joy of it. But that was only a prelude to the incredible delights which were to follow.

As he continued to kiss my breasts and nipples, he ran his fingers slowly down the swell of my belly, with a touch as fine as if I was being caressed with threads of gossamer. When he reached my mons veneris, gently stroking it and running his fingers through my golden curls, I felt a sensation between my legs that I had never felt before, a sort of tingling sensation, but such a delicious sensation, and I became aware that I was becoming wet between the folds of flesh that guarded my cunny. Involuntarily I parted my legs, for by now, I was lost to sense and I wanted him to explore further.

Niccolo was a perfect gentleman, however, and he was in no hurry to complete his seduction. His first thought was for my pleasure and not the satisfaction of his own need and desire. If he was to take me, it had to be because it was also my ardent desire, and it must only be because I wished to surrender willingly and gladly. And I did want to surrender, more than anything else in the world.

“Please touch me down there,” I whispered, “between my legs, I want to feel you…” I paused and then said even more quietly, “inside me.”

Niccolo looked at me and smiled, “My dear Elizabeth, today I will take you on a journey to paradise,” and he kissed me on the lips for the first time.

In a strange way, his kisses were more intimate than the caresses that had so excited me, and when I opened my mouth to accept his gently probing tongue, it was an act of complete and ultimate surrender to his will. In that moment I became his forever.

As our tongues danced together, his hands continued their voyage of exploration, and he slid his fingers down across the little button nestled between my curls and gently parted my petals. My whole flesh felt alive, and every touch sent waves of fire through me, and I was well beyond the point at which I could have stopped him. I was going to lose my virginity this afternoon, and this was what my mind and body now craved. I wanted him to possess me, or to put it more truthfully I needed him to possess me utterly with a desire that was almost a madness.

You might be shocked to hear this, my friends, for I was a respectably brought up young woman who should not have such wanton desires. But for the first time in my life, I felt truly wanted and desired, and yes, even loved. This, this was what I had been created for, and at last I was going to become truly myself; this was my destiny.

I gasped as Niccolo slid his fingers down the length of my wetness and into the entrance to my cunt, probing deep into my centre, and sending me spinning over the edge of the world in ecstasy. My limbs were shaking and my legs could hardly bear my weight, and if it hadn't been for Niccolo holding me up with his free arm, I would have fallen at his feet.

As I slowly came back to earth, Niccolo gently held me in his arms and sat me down on his bed, and then stepped back half a pace and started to undress. First, he unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head to reveal a muscular chest, with a light covering of dark hair running down into the waistband of his tights. Next, he removed his codpiece and for the first time I saw his manhood, his half-erect cock rising from the nest of his curls, and below, his balls hanging down nearly a hands width.

I was fascinated. Back home I had often seen the boys peeing in the street, and I had seen my father naked many times when he took his bath in front of the fire, but this was different and so beautiful to my eyes. I wanted to reach out and touch him, and lifted my hand towards him.

“Si, mia cara Elizabeth, you may touch,” he said softly, “soon you will know the joy when a man enters you, and later I will teach you many ways to please a man — you English are so ignorant about these matters, and yet there is no better way to keep a husband from casting his eyes elsewhere.”

He took my hand and laid it on the shaft of his cock. I marvelled at the contrast between the silkiness of the skin compared to the hardness of the organ, which was now fully at attention. It was more than three of my hand widths in length and as thick as three of my fingers. I girdled the shaft as far as I could with my thumb and forefinger, and started to stroke up and down. It was so thrilling to feel it quicken under my touch. With my other hand, I cupped his balls, which were heavier than a hen’s egg, and which moved entrancingly within their sac as I caressed it.

“Enough lady,” Niccolo gasped, “much more and I will shoot my bolt too soon. Another day I will let you caress me as much as you like, and then I will show you how to please me with your lips and mouth. But today I will take your innocence, and show you even more of the gardens of paradise. I must warn you there will be some discomfort at first as you become accustomed to my size, and as I enter deep into the depths of your fica — how do you say, ‘cunt’ — there will be a sharp pain as I tear your maidenhead.

As he finished speaking, he put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back so that I was lying on the sheets, with my parted legs hanging over the edge. Coming close to me, he knelt between my thighs and, holding his member in one hand, he started to stroke the head along my slit until it was coated with my juices, and then putting it in the entrance to my cunt, he slowly and firmly thrust it home until his balls were resting against the cheeks of my arse.

I cried out as he passed through the final barrier to my virginity, but the pain soon went away, and then I started to feel nothing but the most intense pleasure, and a sense of completeness with this man buried deep inside my body. How could this be a sin, I thought, when it felt like the most wonderful thing a woman could ever know, and pushing all other thoughts from my mind, I just surrendered to his will in rapture.

Niccolo fucked me very gently that afternoon — he was, I learned later, a consummate lover — although on later occasions he would be much more vigorous, almost frenzied in his passion. Nothing in my former life had prepared me for the wonder and beauty of my climax when it came. My feelings were beyond description, and words such as ecstasy and rapture are totally inadequate to express the joy that overcame me. I truly felt that I had entered another world, although with part of my mind I was aware of the music of the fountain outside the window, and the earthier sound of his cock sliding in and out of my cunt. At the height of my passion, I heard Niccolo grunt and groan, and his cock swell and jerk as he emptied his hot seed deep into my womb.

Niccolo collapsed on top of me, and we lay like that for many minutes, both lost in the bliss of our loving. When his flaccid member finally slipped out of me, I felt a keen sense of loss, as if I was somehow less than I had been for those moments in paradise. We lay for about an hour cuddled together naked upon the sheets, while Niccolo caressed my body gently, whispering words of love in a mixture of Italian and English. I was, he said, his sweetheart, his precious pearl, and his princess.

That was the first of many afternoons when we made love in the darkness of his room, lit only by the golden shafts of sunlight through the slats of the shutters on the window. He did teach me many things as he had promised, and emptied himself into my mouth as well as my cunt. His seed was not unpleasant in taste, like smoke with a hint of rich spices, and the musky smell of his body was like a perfume to my senses.

Sadly, my aunt eventually recovered from her malady, and I was devastated to think that I must never see him again. But Niccolo found the solution — he was not a man who would let anything stand in the way of his desires, and as the second most powerful man in Genoa, few would dare to deny him. So it was that one afternoon two men carrying a curtained litter stopped at our door, and one-handed a small card to the footman to be given to my father.

Duke Niccolo d’Ardini cordially requests the company of Signorita Elizabeth Strenger to attend on his sister, the Signora Rosina.

When he read the card, my father gave me a questioning look, but he gave his assent, thinking perhaps that association with the Ardinis would be of great advantage to his business.

So my afternoons of delight continued until the inevitable happened, and I discovered that I had missed two of my monthly bleeds. I concealed the fact of my condition for as long as possible, but eventually I had to confess to my father. He was extremely angry, and threatened to have me put away in a nunnery. Niccolo demanded a meeting with him however, and it was agreed that I should not be punished so harshly — I suppose that pressure was brought to bear on my father; Niccolo did control all the licences for the export of goods from the port of Genoa after all. It was also agreed that Niccolo would accept his responsibility, and our child would be brought up with his other children; and if it was a girl, found a suitable husband when the time came.

I cried when my daughter was taken from my arms a few minutes after her birth, but I knew she would be far better provided for than if I had taken her back to England, where she would forever be tainted with the curse of bastardy. With Niccolo’s assistance, my father found a husband for me from among the other English merchants in Genoa, a widow in his forties; a man who Niccolo avowed would treat me kindly. Everything was explained to him, and no doubt money changed hands, but a few days after I had recovered from my confinement, I was married in a small chapel in Genoa by the Ardini family’s own priest.

I had to make my confession a few days before the ceremony, and in penance for my grave sins, my long hair was shorn — it grew back eventually, of course, but it was never as lustrous as it had been, and it turned white when I was only in my late thirties. Niccolo came to the wedding, and I thought that I could detect a tear in his eye when he saw what had been done to me.

My husband John was a kind man, and he was always good to me, and I discovered the truth of Niccolo’s assertion, because as far as I know, he never strayed with the whores of the town where we lived, even during my confinements. We had three sons, two of whom were sent as agents by my husband in Brabant and Piedmont when they were of age. The third and youngest kept company with me until his marriage — his father having died peacefully of old age— when he went to live somewhere in the south, Norwich I think. Whether any have survived the pestilence, I know not, I can only say my Rosary and pray for their souls.

Although I never heard from Niccolo, I was sent word when my daughter would have been sixteen that she had been betrothed to the son of a family in the minor nobility, but that is the last I know of her. I pray for her daily too.

That is my story, my friends. I ask you not to judge me too harshly, for I have no regrets, and still remember my days in Genoa with fondness, though it seems to me now it must have been in a different life.