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Orange Deb and Black-Eyed Molly Black

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Seduced by a devilish instigation, on the fourth day of August in the tenth year of the reign of our Sovereign Lord the King, I did, in my right mind, tempt Martin Mackintosh, also known as Orange Deb, to commit a detestable act. This is my confession.

 

1 Journey to London

I loved London at first sight, at first smell, at first sound.

It was three months after my father’s funeral when I travelled alone to the capital. As our coach neared the journey’s end, I sat atop it, all the greater to inhale the sickly perfume of the great river at Mile-end road. Drawing across White-chapel, chased by white dust, I thrilled to the hubbub of the streets; the clamour of calls and laughter like screams. I had never seen so many people pressed together. Mighty houses so close set I feared they would topple.

My nose, ears and eyes tingled.

But when we drew up an hour later at Little-Windmill street a fresh sensation seized me: that of worry. We arrived in the evening betwixt seven and eight of the clock. I had expected my aunt – who was to share her lodging with me – to have left word. But there was none. Under the evening shade of the booking office, my trunk by my side, I considered what to do, as I knew no-one else in this great city.

As I waited, a beetle-browed gentleman, lean of face with a stubbled chin, passed me more than once. He circled to the other side of the street and returned before standing in front of me. He doffed his hat and introduced himself as Henry Gifford and asked from whence I had come, sensing I was green in this city. I told him Essex and he pretended to be well acquainted that way.

I explained I was awaiting a message, but he pointed to a drinking house by the name of the Pine Apple and implored me to leave my trunk in the care of its landlord. He further suggested I should take replenishment there. My hunger was indeed great – I had not eaten since morning – and thus I agreed, thinking him kind. He took my arm and we entered that tavern.

It was a grave mistake.

 

2 The Pine Apple and an assault

The Pine Apple was gloomy as dusk. Hardly windowed, sparsely candlelit and full with fifty or more menfolk.

Mr Gifford set in front of me a penny loaf and broth. He had two pots of drink to himself and made me drink some Geneva which warmed my head and loosed my tongue. I told him my circumstances: I was the only daughter of an ostler, and my parents – first my mother and then father – had died of the small-pox. Being newly in my majority I had come to London to seek a position in domestic service.

Nodding, Mr Gifford asked my name, adding that he might know of my family.

‘Molly Black, sir,’ I replied. At that, he stifled a laugh with such endeavour his face turned purple. Small chuckles escaped from him as he recovered.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘it amused me that your name is Black and your eyes are so dark.’

I was sure this was not the reason for his merriment, but his gaze turned steadfast and he looked at me from my waist to my black hair.

‘You wear a shift,’ he said, ‘but look boyish.’

Colour rushing to my cheeks, I said my hair was simply pinned as is the custom for maidens in Essex.

‘Scrawny thing too,’ he said.

By his words, you may think he was displeased with my appearance. But his actions told different. Evidently in liquor, he became familiar; moved closer and rubbed his hands. He said I had eyes like coal and soft hair and a pretty nose. He ran a finger up my forearm and said he was held captive by the colour of my skin; that I must have caught the sun in Essex playing outside like a boy.

I pulled away, grateful for the interruption of an orange seller at our table. He stood next to our candle, a curious thing – dark hair to his shoulders, skin of porcelain. His eyes, dancing in the candle-flame, were the colour of forget-me-nots. Only his voice and his breeches marked him as male. His basket hung at his waist.

I had never seen oranges and stared at them, but Mr Gifford was quick with the seller.

‘Go along, Orange Deb, you have no sale here,’ he said.

But the seller loitered, trying, I fancied, to draw my attention.

Mr Gifford impatiently pushed the seller away and I knew I was in ill company. I stood to leave, determined to find my aunt’s lodgings on my own account, but Mr Gifford rose with me. He paid the reckoning and asked where my aunt lived. When I told him he said that was south of the river and he would show me to the bridge at West-minster. Unsure of the way, I accepted.

This was another mistake that near cost me my life.

 

3 Under the bridge

Mr Gifford escorted me in a gentlemanly enough fashion to the bridge, but instead of taking his leave he beckoned me down some steps. Thinking this a short-cut, I took a step down. There his pleasantries stopped: he said I owed him something for the reckoning and I was so pretty and unblemished he would go forty miles to enjoy me.

Afeared, I looked around for a watchman. On seeing my panic, Mr Gifford pushed me further towards the water and stood above me. In one movement he took my hand and pushed it into his breeches where he had a stiffness. In a rough voice he bade me stroke it, at the same time unbuttoning, so his yard – his penis – came out. I did as I was told, hoping this would end my troubles. But though he moaned and I stroked him quickly, I did not satisfy him. He bent himself to me and his stubbled face scratched my cheek. He pulled at my clothes, tearing rents in them. One hand lifted my petticoat so high I felt the air on my back.

I feared for my life. I begged him to desist and cried for help, but he stopped my mouth with his sleeve and whispered that I would likely end up a street-walker, so it would be as well to lie with him now.

‘By God,’ he said, ‘you shall go backwards for me.’

Before that last word had fully left his lips I heard a retort so loud I thought a shot had been fired. Mr Gifford pressed against me and then tumbled, deprived of his senses, to the bottom of the steps. I looked up: standing in place of Mr Gifford was Orange Deb, the seller from the Pine Apple. He peered at the stupefied body, then back to his empty fruit basket, which he held in his hand.

‘I fear I have damaged my basket,’ he said.

Orange Deb reached for my hand and pulled me up. He said we should not wait for my assailant to revive and dragged me along unfamiliar narrow streets. Though he carried his broken basket under one arm and my disarray slowed him, he sprang like a puppy past Half-Moon Street and Tobacco Yard (most other names I cannot recall in our frenzy of running). But I remember the dust we kicked up and the shops; the gunsmiths and tallow chandlers we raced past, the glovers and tinsmen he pulled me by and silkmen and hosiers and peruke makers. Outside this last, I cried stop, afraid my heart would burst and that my gown would fall from me. I was covered more by sweat than clothing.

He, being out of breath also, spoke between gasps.

‘I tried – to – warn you – at the Pine Apple,’ he said. ‘You did not recognise – the harm aimed at you.’

My hand rested against the shop window. I was too breathless to thank him.

‘The Pine Apple is a place where men curtsey to each other and use the language of women,’ he said. ‘Some go in couples into a private room to be married.’

I looked at Orange Deb. ‘How - do - men - marry?’

‘They practice sodomy, he said. ‘They are mollies and it is a molly house.’

I still did not understand, but I now knew why Mr Gifford had found my name funny. I told the orange seller this. He smiled.

‘Your name is not your fault,’ he said and owned he was no stranger to odd names. Though christened Martin Mackintosh, he was called Orange Deb by all on account of his trade – and his girlish features.

I curtsied, careful to hold my clothes as I did so.

‘You have had a pretty night of it,’ he said, ‘but we are nearly at my lodgings and you may rest there until morning, and trust I will not treat you as ill as you have been already.’

I had little choice at this late hour: I followed Deb to the stairs of his lodging. On his advice, lest I should bring scandal onto him (by being a woman in his bed-chamber), we went up with our shoes in our hands.

 

4 Sharing a stranger’s quarters

It was a moonshine night: when he opened his lodging door I saw its contents as if it were day. It was small, but clean; the bed had a worn carpet under it and white linen on top. There was a window, about shoulder-height, a stool, and by the bed a candle. In the chimney-corner, a box of oranges and limes sat atop a chest.

Deb saw me regard the oranges as he lighted the candle and without a word handed me the largest. Foolishly, I bit it without knowing to remove its coat. But he did not laugh at my ignorance; he sat and peeled it, then handed me the flesh. I attacked it anew: my cheeks drew together with its sharpness and its juice ran down my chin. He laughed – then I laughed too.

You may wonder why I trusted Orange Deb to laugh with him so. I cannot explain. Perhaps it was his kindness or his manner. Most important, despite my disarray he was not inspired to be familiar with me.

Presently, tired from my experiences, I asked the o’clock. Deb said the bell had tolled two, some while before and we should sleep. He turned to let me undress to my petticoat. Conscious of his own decency, he stayed in breeches and shirt. We lay on the same bed – he on one side and I on the other. He blew out the candle and by consent, we fell to sleep.

It was a hot night; the air was still. I could feel Orange Deb restless too, for the bed was narrow and we were pressed to each other. His back was damp. He arose at a time he believed me asleep to remove his clothing and climb into a night-gown. Though I gave the impression of slumber, I stirred and saw him stand next to the bed with his back to me. He pulled up his shirt and removed his breeches so he was naked. I could not avert my look. His back and legs were lean, like those of my late father’s colt. He turned to take on his gown and I saw his smooth chest. Before I closed my eyes they were drawn lower to what hung between his legs, hanging proud of the rest of his body. His bollocks hung like a stallion’s. I closed my eyes tight and prayed God would grant me forgiveness for what I had seen and the comparisons I had made.

The last I remember before returning to sleep was that I had been in this city only a few hours but had already seen more of men’s privates than I had seen in my life.

London seemed to contain, I thought, a lot of pricks.

 

5 A sad discovery

The next day I found out my aunt was dead. I had no inkling when I stirred that morning. The bells of what I later knew to be St Mildred’s had chimed five times when Orange Deb shook me awake to tell me he would go to retrieve my trunk. He told me to stay in his bed-chamber; in truth, I could not have gone anywhere as I was unfit to be seen, my gown torn beyond repair.

When he had gone, I stirred to the morning sounds of London: the roll of wheels, the cry of gulls, the claps from the timber yard and the Oyez of a hundred callers. Despite my predicament (I did not yet know my aunt’s fate), I stepped out of bed to open the window to hear more clearly. As I did so I noticed, on the window-ledge, a painting in miniature of a beautiful woman with a likeness to Orange Deb.

When I heard Deb’s footsteps again it was nearly noon and I was suffering afresh from hunger. He looked sorrowful and confessed he had not only gone to the Pine Apple to ask the whereabouts of my trunk, but – kind Deb – from thence to my aunt’s lodgings; where he made the fateful discovery of her death.

‘She has been gone a month,’ he said.

I sat on the bed. Though I had never met my aunt, I was weak with sadness.

‘And my trunk?’

‘I doubt you will see it again,’ he said, his blue eyes fixed on me. ‘The landlord claims no knowledge of it.’

I was at my lowest. Alone, with no money to my name, I could not even say I had the clothes I stood in, for I could not stand in them.

Deb touched his hand on my shoulder. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘I offer you something at least: my friendship, in return for your trust.’

Only then did tears trouble my eyes, though I know not whether their appearance was prompted by my desolate circumstances or the kindness shown by a young man who had known me only a few hours.

Deb set about trying to cheer me. He told me he had seen Mr Gifford limping to the Pine Apple and did not think that bottle-headed rogue would bother me again.

‘He has,’ Deb said, ‘a lump on his head the size of a bollock.’

That, at last, made me smile, because I knew now that the lump must be big.

 

6 The kindnesses of Orange Deb

That day saw further kindnesses. Deb placed two wooden crates on the bed, divided into them his remaining oranges and said I was to help him sell them.

As for clothing, he handed me his old breeches and a linen shirt, the small holes in which I darned in minutes with a needle I took from him.

As I dressed, he said (with his back to me) how strange our circumstances: he a boy that went by the name of a girl; me a girl with the clothes of a boy.

‘London might take us for brothers,’ he said.

‘Or sisters,’ said I.

That day, and each morning thereafter, we walked together along sunny streets to Eastcheap where we picked citrus to sell. Though I was green at my trade Orange Deb praised how I adapted. I thanked the weather in part: it continued hot and dry, which drew people’s thirst and our services were much in demand. We sold our wares in parks and at street corners, sometimes catching each other’s eye across the windless and baked Horse-ferry road.

Most evenings we sold in the coffee-houses and taverns. We were called pretty lads or pretty maids in equal proportion. We entertained their confusion. ‘Muddled heads make money,’ Deb said.

Though Deb shared his income with me, selling oranges was not the road to wealth. Even after a week, the few groats I had to my name were not enough to support my own lodging. Deb let me stay, telling the landlord I was his visiting brother. In delicate affairs, we managed (for things that should not be mentioned, I went to the privy at the back of his lodging, which stank of the devil). Deb continued to act a gentleman when I undressed into an old gown. I did the same for him; if I was to die on this statement, I shut my eyes for added measure.

At night, with both of us dusty and tired, he talked only of general things after he blowed the candle out.

On our second night, just after it had struck midnight, my eyes were still open to the blackness around me. I said I would not like to be deaf because I would miss hearing the noise of this great city and its bells.

He said the deaf hear the most astounding things, including that which has not been said.

His words kept me awake long after. He knew more than I ever would.

 

7 The miniature

In the darkness of the following night, I asked Deb about the miniature on his ledge. He told me its sad story. It was indeed the likeness of his mother, and had been procured by Deb’s wealthy grandfather. But when, unmarried, she was found to be with child – Deb – his mother was disowned. She had grown bitter and eventually turned to drink and then street-walking. She had been murdered not far from the Pine Apple, two years past.

How close I had come to the same end. Deb more than anyone would have known of the threat; perhaps it explained his pursuit.

I knew how much he missed his mother: each night he kissed her miniature as soon as he had put out the candle.

To brighten him and lull him to sleep I told him of my happy childhood and of the love my parents had for me. My father had kept us well and ensured, though I was a girl, that I could read and write. But in telling Deb of my former happiness I grew mournful too and turned to hide my own tears.

Deb curled into me so our bodies had the same curve. As if we had joined into one, married by the loss of most loved.

I did not move the entire night, so comforted was I by his touch.

 

8 The meaning of words

The great heat continued. We walked the streets during the day and after I had been chased by rogues, and had my buttocks squeezed too many times, I asked Deb to stay alongside me, telling him I was scared of men in this city. We stopped only to eat together.

One day we sat at The Pound at Tothill and shared a pot of beer (for we had a thirst in the heat). We watched the children of the Gray Coat and the Green Coat schools march past in their garters. I said to Deb, as a compliment, that though he was not educated he had more brains than any of those scholars.

He laughed and said, ‘Molly, none of them is older than seven,’ but added, seeing my abashed look, that he knew my words meant well. I lacked Deb’s way with words.

That night I asked him to curl into me again. I liked his smell and when he pressed to me I felt comforted. I was growing to like him greatly.

I do not know what prompted it, but before I slept I asked Deb what it meant to go backwards, as Mr Gifford had wanted.

Deb said we should not talk of it. But I asked again and he turned away.

‘It is another word for sodomy: putting the male yard up the fundament.’

‘They do that in molly houses?’

He sighed in answer.

‘What about buggery?’ I asked

‘That too is a word for sodomy.’

‘There are a lot of words for one act. Is it an act of love or a terrible sin?’

Deb said the sermons of the Methodists and Dissenters were full of its evils. ‘Though if they disapprove of it so mightily,’ he added in a lower voice, ‘I wonder why they talk about it quite so much.’

I slept, but I do not want to tell what I dreamed of.

 

9 Deb’s preferences

Another morning I walked with Deb to Cheapside. We passed a milliner's where I saw a hat with pink ribbons; the sort a lady would wear. I pressed my nose to the window and called Deb, who did not pay it attention, though he agreed a lady might wear it.

I was short with him and said one day I would be a lady, but he did not hear. My brain raced with reasons for his rudeness. I worried he was one of those mollies he knew so much about and fearing this, I drew his attention to every pretty girl as we passed them – saying how beautiful was their skin or their bosom – all to read how he responded. His eyes followed them as they passed and his interest was not feigned. I was pleased in one way, but feared then that he did not think of me as a girl.

That night, after he had turned the candle out, I asked if he still thought of me as a brother.

‘I do,’ he said.

‘But I am not your brother, as you well know,’ I said.

‘True.’

‘But you will look after me?’

‘I will protect you from those rogues who chase you the length of Horse-ferry road,’ he said.

That night I was unsettled by another dream the devil placed in me: Deb chased me the length of Horse-ferry road and when he caught me, he pressed himself hard against my backside and turned my head to push his tongue into my mouth.

 

10 My exasperation and shame

The devil stayed in me overnight. My fitful sleep increased my exasperation. By morning I was so convinced Deb did not think of me as a female that, gripped by sinful intent, I vowed to prove him wrong. Instead of going to the privy I stepped over to the chamber-pot at the end of the bed. Lifting my gown high and showing my backside I sat on it and made water noisily into it. When I rose after I did not pull my gown down.

I turned my head to see if he had watched. Between his legs, his gown had risen like a tent. When he saw me blush at it, he covered himself.

He said, ‘I am sorry – I am sometimes piss-proud in the morning.’

He proved himself by pushing past me to the same chamber-pot (his hands still over his privy parts). I mostly averted my eyes, though I cannot deny I saw his stiffness when he picked up the pot and lifted his gown. He noisily pissed into it, but had to bend himself over. According to his own face, he was in discomfort as he did so. The pot being already half full of my water, he swore as he spilled some down his leg. I would have laughed, but did not want to give away the mix of shame that swirled in me. Shame at how inflamed I was at his arousal and exposure; but worse: a disappointment it had not got that way on account of me.

A great wickedness was bursting to come out of me.

 

11 Outburst

We spent the day together without a word of that morning, though I had not forgotten it. The weather was still hot, but clouds were approaching from the east. As we walked home that evening, he was merry that we had sold every one of our oranges. He said he had arranged a present for me at his lodging.

‘What do you say we get confounded drunk, boy?’ he said.

I stopped. Blood rose to my face. I turned to him and cried: ‘I am not a boy!’

‘I did not mean it that way.’

In my anger, I unclipped my hair and let it fall to my shoulders. ‘I may dress like a boy,’ I cried, ‘but that is no fault of mine. My hair may be held like one and you may treat me like one, but you cannot make me one! Though perhaps you would love me if I was!’

He looked at me as if he were about to strike me. Finally, he said, ‘Molly, it is you who dresses as a boy; you who admires every girl we pass; you who confesses a fear of men and asks me to shield you; I cannot read what is in your black eyes, Molly.’

His words could not douse my anger.

‘Orange Deb,’ I said, you cannot read anything!’

I turned and ran, knowing I had said a hurtful thing. Knowing too I would have to leave his lodgings because such an evil anger had been aroused in me.

 

12 The detestable act

I was at Deb’s when he returned. I apologised for my outburst; I did not know what had come over me. But I did not – could not – meet his look, knowing how my temper and selfishness had been exposed. I said only that I would look for fresh lodgings in the morning.

‘Look at me, Molly,’ he said. I could not. ‘You have not opened my present.’ He pointed to a box on the bed.

I went to it and opened its lid. Inside lay the hat I had admired at the milliner’s. It was beautiful. And more than that, as I lifted it out, underneath it lay a gown. And stockings.

‘These must have cost you ten shillings or more.’ My voice was breaking.

‘I will sup porridge for the rest of my life and not grudge the price,’ he said.

He took the hat and placed it on my head, knotting its ribbons under my chin.

‘There,’ he said, ‘you look beautiful, though I would say the same whatever you wore.’

‘I do not deserve kindness.’

‘It is not kindness,’ he said. ‘It is a token of love.’

The room was silent. Even outside, though the window was open to abate the grumbling closeness of the weather, it was as if the population of London had quietened to listen to our talk. Love, he had said. Love.

‘But you did not want me,’ I said. I looked at him at last, though tears pricked my eyes and anchored my eye-lashes. His cheeks were flushed.

He called me his black-eyed beauty and said I talked nonsense.

‘I wanted you from the moment I saw you in the Pine Apple,’ he said. ‘But you gave me your trust, which I valued above all.’ He told me the nights had tortured him; that he had called me a brother and had talked of trivial things in his bed only to stop his basest thoughts.

‘Oh, Deb,’ I said.

His hand tugged my ribbon and he removed my hat.

He said, ‘I cannot lie, though it shames me to admit it: I was not piss-proud the other day; the sight of your nakedness made me that way.’

I looked down.

‘Molly Black, you still do not believe me. I will show you.’

At that, he moved towards me and his lips closed to mine. Soft at first but then so hard my body moved back and I toppled to the bed. His kisses swiftly left my mouth and travelled to my nose and ears. He kissed my eye-brow and my eye-lash.

It is my belief the devil piloted me once more. Otherwise, I would have been too modest to do what I did: move my hands to tug at his shirt. Even that cannot explain my frenzy: my tongue licked his face; my teeth bit his ear. I was not accountable, did not think what I was doing. He pulled away; I did not recognise his expression.

He said I was a pretty fighter, and with one hand he pinned both of mine above my head. I tried to free myself. He said I was like the rabbits he used to catch, always moving.

With his free hand, he stripped my shirt, from neck to waist, as if he was skinning one of those animals. My shirt parted and his tongue flicked to my belly. It ran upwards, arousing the devil in me anew. His tongue touched a nipple – how hard it was – and then ran to the other. Then up to my shoulder. Everywhere his tongue touched – my breasts, my neck, my ears – lit a fire that coursed unchecked through my body: up my legs and down my arms to my fingertips – how they burned! His hands were on my breeches, unbuttoning them and pulling them down, revealing my nakedness.

His tongue possessed me, turned me from my own mind and drove me to madness. A devilish flame burned between my legs as his head moved there. If before I loved Orange Deb, now I pleaded his possession as his tongue licked me greedily. He covered my swelled parts with his mouth so fully that I called his name out to lick more and lick faster and my legs opened to him.

Driven by the same dark forces of lust, he laid his hands on my feet and pushed my legs further apart. His mouth left me and in a moment he had pulled his own shirt over his head and taken down his breeches to make himself naked. His cock stood stiff, the angle of a rafter of a roof.

Nothing was said between us at that moment, but that thing was all I could look at. That thing I had dreamed about since our first night. What evil temptation made me want to touch it? What depravity made me unafraid of it, made me want it to be a part of me, a part of Molly Black?

He moved his naked body over me until his mouth drew over mine and covered it. At that, he kissed me. His tongue sought entry and I own that in my sinfulness my lips parted to allow it in, and my own tongue touched his and moved into his own mouth. The sensation jolted me further so my hand – carried by some godless spirit – reached down to touch him between his legs. He was stiff and wet, but it made me all the more feverish to handle him there. I held his cock firmly and stroked it. Deb said my name over and over, inspiring me to grip harder.

Suddenly he took himself away and looked down at me. In modesty, I made to close my legs and cover myself, but he pulled my arms away and with his own legs pressed mine apart again, saying he wanted to appreciate my innocence this last time. His blue eyes were fixed on my pussy, then on my eyes, then down again to the place we were to be joined. His cock, dark and heavy and moist-tipped, was above my dark patch there. And I slowly opened my legs wide to him – let his eyes drink me in. His hardness now rested against my entrance. I nodded and, by steps, he pushed and I drew him into my body.

The act was sore, I confess, but Deb pressed slowly and looked at me before pushing in further. I did not see any blood and each time he moved back and forward the pain lessened and was overtook by a devilish sensation of warmth. A great heat – a small hell in my body – grew in my belly and I confess I urged him into me.

He thrust in and out several times. It drove me to fresh distraction. I gasped his name and told him I loved him. I had no shame in such immodesty for he said the same back and worse. He said I had a beautiful cunt and he wanted to fuck me. Underneath he clutched my buttocks. He did not do this like the men in the tavern; he held them with love and ownership.

I knew the dangers of his continued presence inside me, but I would have let him spout in me, such was my derangement. But he withdrew in time and, holding himself above me, he came on me: in great bursts, his wet marks sparkling over my belly and my legs.

In a moment he had changed. Though he still hung over me, resting on his elbows, he was much deflated and charged himself for having defiled me. But I was still in a frenzied state and drew his mouth to mine, to kiss him again.

‘Orange Deb or Martin Mackintosh,’ I said, ‘we are joined and I am glad of it for I will never love another.’

I kissed his mouth, then his neck. Then my journey (I know not how) carried me further. I slid underneath his body until I reached his cock. It was inflamed and hanging and moist still with his seed. My mouth went to it and he shrank from me as I swallowed most of him, then all of him.

I could feel his hardness rise in my mouth again to match my own undimmed flame.

At that moment I wanted to please him as I had never wanted to please any man. I escaped from under Deb, turned and climbed on the bed on my hands and knees. I presented myself; my head on my pillow; my backside upwards. At the same time, my hand rubbed his seed into my belly like a cream. I looked over my shoulder and he watched me do this; his cock had sprung again fully. He climbed on me like a beast, his cock entering me from behind instantly. His lips were on my shoulders and he moved in and out like an untamed animal. His whole body smacked mine. He filled me with his cock and when he was not calling my name, his tongue was carving my back. He breathed and groaned and I own I may have done the same. I confess I lost discretion. May God forgive what I said next: the devil used me as a vessel for his speech.

‘Go backwards into me,’ I said.

Even as I said it I was not sure from where the words had come.

His breath was heavy; devilish hot on my ears. ‘Molly,’ he said, ‘you do not mean it.’

I turned my head and his was there, next to mine on the pillow. His breath covered me. I spoke into it.

‘I want to give myself fully,’ I said in my fever and I put it in plain terms. ‘I want you to put your cock in my arse.’

I felt him twitch as I said this. ‘It is wrong,’ he said.

But he spoke quickly and his lust disagreed; he was thrusting harder and faster in me as he spoke. He wanted to do it, but would not. My senses knew this and commanded my hands to reach behind me and clutch my cheeks apart, showing my most private part to him, enticing him.

He sighed at my act and pulled out of me. A second later his penis was against me again, this time pressed to my arse-hole. He said he wanted me like no other and he pushed: the pain was nothing, then great, like a spear.

It did not feel like a sin should feel. It hurt, but he stopped when I cried out and started afresh when it did not hurt anymore. He did not go in far, and I relaxed myself and pushed my mouth into the linen to ease my pain. My skin was awash with pins and needles. If this was the devil’s work I did not care: I shook and gasped in pleasure all the while Deb held himself in me and I fell insensible on the bed. He pushed into my arse-hole once more and moaned lengthily and twitched. He said in a low voice that he had come in me. I knew; I could feel his wetness there and his seed at last in my body. It did not stay there: when he pulled out, it trickled down my leg.

Deb lay beside me, his hand clutching my arse-cheek. Both of us naked and wet with each other and knowing the evil act we had performed.

‘We have done a terrible thing in God’s eyes; we could hang for this,’ he said.

His face was close to mine, and I noticed how his skin glistened, how flushed and fresh he looked. I felt the weight of sin on me too, but my fingers stroked his cheek. I did not want him to regret it.

‘I would hang every Sunday if I could do this with you beforehand,’ I said. ‘If what we have done is wicked, let no-one judge us but God.’

Deb said he loved me. He kissed me and said something I did not expect. He asked to marry me, because no two people in the whole of London matched each other to such a degree. And I gave him the answer I always knew I would give.

More contented than I have ever been, I fell to sleep.

 

13 Regret

He did not stir me this morning. The weather has broken and he would not want me to spoil my new gown in the rain. He is alone at Eastcheap while I write this confession, which I have set out as best I can remember. But bear this in mind: it was not Deb’s doing. I own my sole guilt tempting him to perform our abominable sin.

But under God’s gaze, I will never agree it is the worst sin known to man. It is surely worse to hurt and lie. And if there is no greater virtue than love, then that may yet save my soul, for I will love God and Orange Deb until the close of my life.

 

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