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The Life of a London Heiress (First Chapter)

In the 1840's, a British heiress fantasizes about her husband to be.
December, 1848

"Jennette, darling! I have good news!" My mother said to me one morning when I came down to breakfast.

I hid an unladylike yawn behind my hand as casually as I could manage, then acknowledged her graciously. "What is it then, Mother?" I asked as brightly as my early-morning grogginess would allow.

She giggled; even for my Mother, this was a bit exuberant; my curiosity and suspicion piqued.

"I've found the perfect suitor for you at last!" she exclaimed with utmost enthusiasm.

I stopped nibbling upon the hot biscuit in my hand; this was not the sort of announcement I would imagine most would either give or receive at this hour of the morning.

Nevertheless, I was curious. Ever since I had begun with my finishing school lessons, I knew that Mother or Father would eventually find me a husband to marry, and I never questioned it. It was completely natural; after all, no respectable girl chose her own husband by herself. Her parents would help her make good decisions. Leave the girl to find a man who is handsome and charming, it was her parents' job to make sure he was of good social and moral standing and had enough money to be able to support her.

Some parents took advantage of this job for their own personal agendas, but I was in complete trust of my parents' wishes for my future; I knew that whoever they had picked out for me would be someone I was sure to like.

"Oh really, now? Whom would this man be? Surely I should know the name of my admirer!" I said nonchalantly. In reality, my heart pounded deep within my breast. Could it be that a husband would finally be mine?

"Yes, yes! Your father and I have arranged for the marriage to take place this next November, if you should wish it. It shall be the grandest social event of the year! Only the utmost esteemed ladies and gentlemen shall attend, and it will be held at the most fashionable chapel in all of London..." she chattered on gaily, describing all that she had planned for me already.

I chuckled to myself at her enthusiasm. No-one could claim that she didn't try as hard as possible by human beings to make me happy. But she still had failed to answer the most important question: "Mother, who would be my groom?"

She stopped chattering and looked at me in puzzlement for a moment, then smiled.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry. That is a bit of a large chunk of information, now isn't it? The groom is someone you are already well acquainted with, Harrison Lees," she said.

I took a sharp intake of breath, almost making myself dizzy. I couldn't believe my good fortune; not only was Harrison Lees one of the most eligible bachelors in London, but he happened to be a boy I had shared my childhood with.

Although, he was no boy anymore. At One and Twenty years of age, he was a man and was most certainly not lacking in charm or aesthetically correct physical qualities. He was imminent in masculine beauty, and many girls in the upper class yearned for his hand in marriage.

I could not even fathom my good luck. Over the past year, I had begun to rethink my feelings toward my friend, and a blossom of attraction had bloomed within my bosom. Not only was he heartbreakingly handsome, but his kind disposition melted my tender heart.

"Truly, Mother? Is my betrothed truly Harrison?" I asked, not able to completely conceal my excitement.

Mother nodded and clapped her hands. "Yes! Are you pleased? I thought you might be! Father wasn't so sure, but I just KNEW it would be a good choice..." she chattered on again.

I smiled to myself, then slipped out of the breakfast-room to the staircase. I intended to freshen up before going to pay a visit to my future husband.

I went to my room and shut the door. I pulled off my long dress off, then my chemise, and continued to undress until quite nude. As I walked to my clothes press, the curtain on my old fashioned four poster bed brushed against my chest.

I immediately felt the familiar flame kindle in my abdomen as it did when my breasts were touched in this way. I felt a slight wetness gather between my legs, but tried to ignore it.

The nagging flame within me made the wetness between my limbs worsen. I had begun to feel these urges soon after I turned sixteen. One day, I had used a cloth to be rid of the juices that had begun to soak my pantalettes, and had accidentally allowed a finger to touch the skin. The aching in my belly increased, but I felt slight relief. So I had began to touch myself, making the fire burn so hotly that my female anatomy began to contract in delicious rhythm, giving me relief from my discomfort.

I had done it every time since then, and it looked as if before I began preparing myself to see Harrison, I would have to do it now as well.

I made my way to the door, making sure that it was securely locked. I then went to my four poster bed and drew the curtains shut, obscuring me from the outside and shrouding myself in a privacy granting darkness.

I lay back on my pillows, then began to caress my attention starved breasts, pinching the small sensitive nipples with a finesse that I had developed over many years of practice. I moaned softly, feeling the silky wetness between my young, soft limbs increase; my nether regions begged for attention, but I knew that the longer I waited, the longer I prolonged my satisfaction, the better the grand finish would be and the more satisfaction would be wrought.

I then proceeded to take a hand between my legs and felt my juices flowing hotly. I brought my dripping fingers to my nipples and began to play with them, the slippery juices aiding in my pleasure seeking venture. I moaned a bit louder, and could no longer stave myself off from the petals waiting between my legs to be caressed by my soft fingers.

I began to stroke myself, the sound of my fingers in the pool of nectar making my arousal increase. I then slipped my fingers in between the folds of soft flesh, pumping them in and out, over and over. My hips began to move with my fingers involuntarily, making the pleasure I felt increase twofold.

I began to moan louder, and brought my other hand to the little nub at my core, rubbing it firmly and gently as quickly as I could manage, bringing me closer to a climax.

I suddenly began to wonder what it would be like to feel a man inside of me. Instead of being embarrassed as a lady of my standing should, I discovered an idea forming in my otherwise hazy brain.

My hand wandered to my nightstand, feeling about for my silver hairbrush that I always kept there. My fingers, finally finding it, closed around it's handle and bought it to me.

I held the heavy silver brush in my hand, calculating exactly what I was to do with it. I examined the long handle, round and slightly curved. At the head of the brush, the handle was narrower, but toward the end it tapered out and then narrowed again at the end, making a very ideal grip for brushing hair, but I had a better use in mind.

I brought it between my legs, wetting the end of the handle with the juices of my arousal. I began to tease the little nub I loved so much with it's slickness, gasping out loud at how good it felt. It was as if a man were actually in bed with me. The thought moistened me more, and I then took the handle and traced the edges of my sex with it, moaning as loudly as I dared.

I could not take any more of this delicious agony, and I slipped the handle between the petals of flesh and into my virginal body.

I almost cried out with pleasure, and began to slowly move the brush in and out of me in a steady rhythm, my hips moving with it to heighten the sensations. As I grew closer to my finish, I pumped the brush faster and faster, gasping with each thrust of the handle into me. I imagined I was being ravaged within an inch of my life, the naughtiest thing that had ever gone through my head.

I moaned and quietly screamed out Harrison's name; it was only then that I realized I had been imagining that he was here the entire time, partaking of these forbidden pleasures of my body along with me; it was he who caused me to lust for pleasure this way.

Just imagining him brought me to the edge, and with one last gasp of pleasure, my young sex began to contract with waves of ultimate pleasure, making a stream of wetness course over my hand and leaving me absolutely breathless.

I sat, absolutely spent of all of my reserved energies. I breathed deeply, bringing in the life-giving oxygen my body needed to calm my racing heart. I lay back on the pillows, basking within my haven of relaxed muscles and calmed nerves.

Although I had experienced this very feeling countless times before, I never grew used to it. I felt absolutely wonderful.
This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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