I lift up my nightdress, part my legs, and touch my wetness. I sink my fingers inside myself, listening to the sound they make, squishing back and forth. It doesn’t take long before I let out a muffled whimper as a short, sharp wave of pleasure relieves my frustration—for now, at least. I don’t know exactly when this need emerged. An exploratory touch led to a rub, and a rub led to my fingers probing my gnawing pain. It relieves this new bodily tension.

“Megan, breakfast. Hurry, you will be late.”

“Coming, Mother!” I shout from my bedroom, praying no one heard my secret whimpers. I touch my cheeks—they feel warm, so I let their flush settle before going downstairs. As the only daughter in a household of three older brothers, my pink face would be a dead giveaway; one quip and I’d be puce.

It’s 1913. At nineteen, nearly twenty, like most women here, my future seems destined for domestic service, cleaning and cooking for the local gentry. While that thought dwells, it isn’t what preoccupies my mind. Inside me, a clock has begun to tick loudly. Each time it chimes, my body is purged with a cocktail of hormones that wreak havoc, propelling me into womanhood and a new consciousness.

Everything seems different now. I’m obsessed with looking at my body in the mirror. I love to trace my fingers from the smallness of my waist along their crest and over my tummy. I can almost palpate the beat of desire cradled within this beautiful new structure—its ferocity ebbing and waning in sync with my awakened ovaries. Tracing my fingers further down to my Venus mound, I find a thick down of dark curls standing guard like a soldier on watch, shielding my virginity.

Yet this metamorphosis is not merely physical; it has stirred a sexual yearning whose power scorches my veins. I sit in church every Sunday morning, but the sermon floats past me. No matter how hard I try to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, wicked fantasies incarcerate my mind. While my older brothers tease and irritate me, they also teach me valuable lessons. Let’s just say I know exactly what an erect penis looks like and what it does, something I constantly imagine being deeply penetrated by to quell this God-awful pain.

My mother’s call yanks me back again, more insistent this time: “Megan, come on, get down here now. Breakfast is going cold.”

*****

That morning, I can’t take my eyes off him. Tom, a year older than me, is totally oblivious to his appeal. We have gone from playing innocently, like children next door, to being in each other’s company with a quiet new shyness. Whenever I see him, my face flushes, I start to tremble, and I struggle to get my words out.

He appears at the cottage gate, as he does every morning. “Morning, Meg,” he says, tipping his cap. I love how he calls me Meg. “It’s going to be a cold one. Wrap up warm.” I heed his warning and grab a coat as I shut the cottage door. He looks unmistakably like a farmhand, following in his father’s footsteps, as most young men do. He has his father’s stature and good looks. As I walk alongside him, I am torn between trying to form coherent sentences for polite conversation and walking shyly in silence. I hardly expect him to notice my newfound curves hidden beneath this unsightly flannel skirt, so I say very little.

A group of men calls to him. “Come on, Tom, we will be late.” Just like that, he tips his cap and runs off to catch up. As I watch him disappear, I touch my cheeks and wish they didn’t flush so easily. He glances back at me briefly; I smile coyly, and the other men laugh, urging him to quicken his pace.

*****

The manor house is imposing, poised majestically on perfectly manicured lawns. Since His Lordship’s wife died in childbirth three years ago, the house has faded like the remnants of one of his grand dinner parties. Dust dulls the twinkle of the grand chandeliers, the walls are cracked and in disrepair, and the air is damp. It’s been a long time since we’ve heard laughter echo through the halls. When I’m cleaning, if the library door is ajar, I often pause to catch a glimpse of him standing by the window, catatonic, staring blankly at the gardens. Sometimes he stands there for hours, a sad sight, the chill of his grief casting an eerie sadness over the house.

“Who’s there?” he snaps, alarmed, as the tray of cutlery I’m carrying clatters to the floor.

“I… I’m sorry, my Lord,” I reply, scrambling to my knees to gather the scattered knives and forks. He turns his head with disdain. With my head down, rushing to retrieve the cutlery, I hear the clip of his heels as he approaches. The gloss of his black patent shoes is directly in front of me.

“What’s your name?”

My face is flushed, my mouth is dry, and I can barely sputter a word. “M… Megan, my Lord.”

“Well, Megan, what a calamity. Don’t miss this one,” he says, passing me a stray silver knife. Despite my panic, I swear I witness the faintest hint of an amused smile.

“Thank you, my Lord. I am sorry for the disruption.” I stand and quickly scuttle off to resume my duties. Back in the main kitchen, I slump against the table and tell Rose, the scullery maid, what just happened. We collapse into fits of giggles over my embarrassing fiasco.

*****

It’s my turn to have a few hours off this afternoon, and Tom has asked if I would like to visit the village fayre. I can’t contain my excitement. What shall I wear? I don’t have many clothes to choose from, yet I keep searching through them in frustration, tossing rejections into a messy pile.

“Megan, Tom is here,” my mother bellows as I hear footsteps creaking on the stairs. “Why aren’t you dressed?” she blurts from my doorway.

“Oh, Mother, I have nothing to wear,” I reply, slumping on the bed, head hanging low, a tear rolling down my cheek.

“Darling, come here,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “Let’s sort this out. Stand up, turn around, and take a deep breath.” I catch my breath as she pulls the laces of my corset tighter. “There, see? Now you have a waist and cleavage.” I look in the mirror and admire the exaggerated cinch of my waist, my breasts pushed upward and rounded against the confines of the corset. It’s the ultimate definition of my sexuality, my fertility, my erotic allure. I feel in control.

“Here, try this on,” my mother says, returning to the room with blue fabric draped over her arm.

“Oh, Mother, your beautiful blue dress. I can’t…”

“I wore this the day I met your father—I was eighteen and had a figure like you. It’s pointless just hanging in my wardrobe. Here, try it on.” And just like that, I am transformed. A smile rises in my cheeks, and I lean into my mother and give her a big hug. “One more thing—face me,” she says, sparingly applying a little rouge to my cheeks and lips. “There, you are ready. Now go and have a lovely time.”

*****

The village fayre is bursting with people. The confidence from my corset is short-lived. I have butterflies; my palms sweat, and my mouth is dry. Every time Tom brushes close, I feel tingly. My heart quickens, and my mind wanders. My vision narrows to his blond hair, the angle of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. Oh, how I yearn to kiss him, to taste him, to touch him, to…

“Meg, Meg… are you listening?”

“Uhh… Yes, Tom, what is it?”

“Here you go…” Tom says, passing me a stick of candyfloss.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile, taking the cloud of spun sugar. The sugar dissolves on my tongue, leaving a sticky residue on my lips. Just as I am about to wipe it away, Tom’s finger sweeps away the syrup without warning. The world stops in that moment: my eyes widen, my breath catches, and his fingers on my mouth feel like a sensory explosion. I look up at Tom with a quizzical look; my nervous butterflies are like a storm in my belly.

“Meg… you are so pretty.” I blush horribly, then there it is—his lips on mine; they land like a delicate raindrop. I keep my head tilted to keep his kiss on my mouth. My heart pounds, my skin feels alight, and the heavy, moist swell of my arousal blooms like a beautiful flower between my legs. I am thrown off balance. In this beautiful moment, I can feel my emotions in free fall. I think this is what they call falling in love.

Later that night, alone in my room, I replay his kiss over and over in my mind. I imagine him lying me down on the bed, kissing my body all over, then parting my legs and making love to me. I want him to claim my sweet virginity so that we can be together forever. I love him. I rub myself hard to reach release, and eventually drift off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

*****

I wake. I’m horny.

The orgasm doesn’t take long. I lie on my front, legs scissored, rubbing furiously, thinking of that first kiss. I skip breakfast; I have no appetite whatsoever. All I can think about is Tom, day and night. This isn’t a good time to be struck down by lovesickness; Father is ill, and the family’s earnings are meagre, so I’m working extra. I rush to get dressed and head to the manor house.

This past week, His Lordship’s mood has been foul, and he’s snapped at most of the staff for no apparent reason. The house has become tense and uneasy. His moroseness coincides with the anniversary of Her Ladyship’s death; this year, it seems worse.

“Your tea, my Lord.” The porcelain cup rattles as I set the tray down on his desk. His eyes stay fixed ahead; his face is still, no nod of acknowledgement. I pivot on my foot and turn sharply, hoping to escape unscathed.

“Megan, isn’t it?” I freeze at the sound of his voice, breathe in deeply, and turn to face him.

“Yes, my Lord, it’s Megan.”

“Pretty name… it was Lady Clara’s middle name,” he says poignantly.

“Yes, my Lord,” I reply, though my throat feels as if it’s closing up.

“That dark, thick hair of yours, just like Clara’s.” A heavy silence fills the room; I don’t know how to respond.

“That will be all,” he snaps, his face quickly returning to a sour expression. “Megan… make sure you bring me my tea tomorrow.” My mouth opens, but no words come out. I turn and hurry out, his request ringing in my head.

The following morning, I carry the tea tray to the library.

“Shut the door, please, Megan. Bring the tea to my desk.” The china clatters uncontrollably. As I pour from the teapot, it trembles in my hand. I see him out of the corner of my eye, looking up at me as hot water splashes into the saucer.

“I hear your father is sick?”

“Yes, my Lord, he has bronchitis.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Make sure to take him hot food from the kitchen this evening. Tell me, how old are you?” His question takes me by surprise.

“Twenty next week, my Lord.” I blush uncontrollably. He nods and returns to reading his newspaper.

“That will be all, thank you, Megan.” The conversation ends abruptly, and so does the tea service.

*****

Serving his morning tea has become part of my daily routine. Each time he manages to coax a small snippet about my life, I can’t help but grow a little fond of him. The other servants have remarked that his mood seems less caustic. While Father’s health is improving, he still can’t work, and the extra shifts have kept me from seeing Tom. I miss him, but this evening, after work, we have arranged to take a walk in the park. The anticipation of seeing him sends my sexual longing into overdrive. That morning, I replay his kiss in my head. I place my pillow—his imaginary body—between my thighs and finger my wetness, gyrating on the pillow until I orgasm. The relief calms me for the rest of the day.

“Megan, where are you?” Mrs Brown, the housekeeper, calls urgently from the kitchen.

“Here, Mrs Brown.” I rush from the pantry.

“You will have to work this evening,” she says, red-faced and flustered. “Mr Watson has taken to his bed, unwell. You know his Lordship will only tolerate you or Mr Watson serving him.” My heart sinks. I want to see Tom.

“Yes, of course, Mrs Brown,” I say, deflated.

That evening, I put on a fresh uniform, and Mrs Brown gives me a crash course in dinner service. I find it hard to believe one person can eat everything that’s on the dinner trolley: a clear consommé to start, roast beef with fresh vegetables, cherry tart for dessert, and finally a cheese course to finish.

“Megan, listen carefully. Make sure you stand quietly behind His Lordship while he eats. Don’t rush him; he will set the knife and fork like this on the plate when he is done.” I nod as I watch her demonstration. “Make sure his wine glass is kept filled. Don’t pour too much in at once, either,” she hastens to add. “The port goes into this small glass when he is ready for the cheese course.” This is a lot more to remember than serving a simple cup of tea. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, my hands tremble, and I wonder how I’ll hold myself together for the next hour upstairs.

*****

Dinner is served in the library. The room has become his bolt-hole these past few years. He seems to have changed from the archetypal upper-class lord to a rebellious figure, no longer tolerating societal expectations. It might explain why few people visit the house anymore and why he has little patience for pomp and circumstance. I knock on the door gently.

“Yes.” He looks up from his papers, disturbed by the trolley’s rattle. “Where is Mr Watson?” he says, a little surprised.

“Mr Watson is unwell, my Lord. I will be serving dinner tonight.”

“Hum,” he says gruffly.

I serve the soup and stand quietly behind him—just to the side as instructed. He delicately dips the spoon into the centre of the bowl and pushes it outwards. This isn’t just about eating; every movement he makes displays his elevated social standing. I serve the beef and watch him hold the silver knife and fork with such ease, carving a single, precise bite-sized portion.

“Megan, more wine, please.” I am jolted from my trance.

“Yes, my Lord.” I’m annoyed at myself—I should have watched for the cue to top up his wine. I cradle the bottle just as Mrs Brown taught me, but my nerves are a wreck. As soon as I tilt it, I catch the rim of the wine glass, and gravity takes over. The glass spills, and the wine splashes outward all over him.

“Jesus!” he snaps. I panic, trying to mop up the wine with a spare napkin, desperately holding back my tears.

“I am so sorry, my Lord.” But my flustering only seems to make matters worse. He stands up and seizes my hand. I gasp. My eyes are startled—the shock on my face is evident. He looks directly at me and pauses. The furrow of his brow relaxes, and he holds me still with his hazel eyes. I am close enough to see into his truth, sorrow coupled with anger, so profound I can see into his dark hollow and hear the echo of his silent screams.

Suddenly, he pulls me closer and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is unlike the warm, delicate raindrops of Tom’s kiss; this is a thunderous storm—on my lips, inside my mouth, and over my face. I can taste the remnants of his wine as I open my mouth, instinctively answering his hunger.

His hands cradle my face, then he weaves his fingers through my thick hair to hold me firmly at the nape of my neck as his tongue laps deeper inside. At first, my body stiffens, unsure how to respond, but the sensation electrifies me. The books around me blur, my head spins, and my lack of social standing fades away; I’m torn between thinking of Tom and wanting to be utterly consumed by this moment.

I’m jarred from the kiss by his hand taking mine and placing it over his hardness. My mind is in sensory overload, and my heart beats dangerously. I hesitate; my hand is rigid. I have never experienced this before. He prompts me to feel the cylindrical hardness of his cock through his trousers. I can’t believe how hard it feels. Guiding my hand, he moves it firmly up and down. I take his cue and listen as his breathing quickens, while I apply more pressure and adjust my pace.

Every second feels stretched, caught between fear and an insane excitement I’ve never known before. It’s as if a powerful cocktail of chemicals has literally hijacked my mind, and my primary biological directive to procreate is trumping all logical thought. I bargain with myself: I should stop, but the power balance is unequal; he holds all the authority, the wealth, and my livelihood. My mind says one thing, but my body says another. I’m so confused.

For a moment, he steps back and looks at me with longing. “Megan, I want you.” I am not sure what he means by those words, but I nod before I can stop myself. As he unbuttons my dress and lets it fall to the floor, my face blushes uncontrollably. No one has seen me this exposed—I’m wearing just my corset and a thin petticoat covering my modesty. To say I feel vulnerable is an understatement; I can feel my heart thump against the corset’s bones, the only thing that is holding me together. He seems to sense my tension, leans in, and leaves a trail of kisses running along my neck and over the rounded mounds of my breasts that are pushed upwards by the corset. My whole body shakes; the seductive kisses intensify the pain between my thighs, which becomes unbearable, and the slickness of my arousal drips from me.

He tilts my chin tenderly and looks into my eyes. It’s a reassuring look, yet it also confirms what is ahead. I am pliant in his arms as he turns me around, rests his hand on my head, and carefully bends me over his desk. He unfastens my petticoat and discards it on the floor. The cool air on my bare arse heightens my anticipation. Every sound he makes is exaggerated in my mind; his clothes rustle as he fumbles to undo his trousers.

Poised over his desk, my thoughts momentarily dart to Tom; however, desire’s momentum has already taken over. My consent to what is about to unfold feels traitorous. The feeling of guilt is brief; his fingers consume my mind again as they trace gently along my slickness. I can’t help but expel a pleasured whimper and quickly grab the edge of the desk to anchor myself. His body is pressed against mine, his hard cock probing between my wet folds. He parts them with such delicacy, yet another display of his elevated social standing.

With his hardness pressed against the entrance of my vagina, I suppose this is the last opportunity to say no. But this is raw and primal—my eyes are wide, I grip the desk, and in that suspended moment, I realise this is just the brief pause before he steals my virginity.

Then it happens. The burn. Slow and painful as his thick cock penetrates me.

I yelp involuntarily, but he persists.

My sweet, virginal, fertile canal is now filled.

I am motionless. Unsure how to react. The sensation is exquisite.

Then he grabs my hips and begins to thrust. Softly at first, then more and more desperate.

With each thrust, I whimper.

With each whimper, he grunts.

I daren’t move. Then, I hear a satisfied moan and feel a warm trickle of fluid run down my thighs.

Like a kite that loses velocity and falls from the sky, his hardness dissolves inside me, his body slumps, and I realise it’s over. Somehow, I feel let down. I wanted more; my kite was just taking flight.

For a brief moment, he holds me tight. A reverent kiss on my neck. Then he steps back, his shoulders hunching. “Megan, I’m sorry.” I say nothing. “Forgive me. You remind me so much of Clara.”

His expression shifts from relief to remorse as he hands me a napkin. I dry myself, taken aback by the blood-stained fluid. Emotions start to overwhelm me—a tear rolls gracefully along my cheek.

My purity is lost right there on that brilliant white napkin, but as I dress, a wave of conflicting feelings rises within me—shame and sorrow, yet also a strange sense of my story being rewritten. I wonder who Megan is now and what will become of me after tonight.

*****