I sit at home on a surprisingly warm November evening. The year is 1765, and it has been the year of my flourishing. All my life, I have been a woman of desires. I have yearned for something but never attained it; sought something but never found it; desired something but never had the pleasure of fulfillment. It has been in 1765 when it all changed.
The summer of ’65 was full of new beginnings and wild…finishes. I had been married to John for quite some time, but this year, something clicked. The passion and wildness which had always been absent from our affairs came swiftly from nowhere, like a crazed Indian chief thirsty for blood. But John was not thirsty for blood – he was thirsty for me. He started coming home not exhausted and worn, but impassioned. Curious. Alive. The feeble faun had transformed into a virile stag; while our affairs were once characterized by discomfort, awkwardness, and even chore, they became full of life, intention, and intensity.
It is now that I sit home, reflecting on our newfound spark. Today has been especially tiresome – between the misplaced heat and the trials and tribulations of daily life in colonial America, I feel weak. No, not weak, perhaps, but rather…vulnerable. And not vulnerable to a threat or a ruffian: vulnerable to my own irrepressible desires.
The door opens and a silhouette stands proudly in the doorway, painted against the pale dusk like a cardinal against a tree trunk.
“I have a surprise for you.”
Ah, my prince, my knight! My handsome lord, who boasts the mind of an eagle and the endowment of a steed. He knows I enjoy surprises, and I have a tingling in my lowers that tells me this one is something very special.
He walks toward me, carefully closing the front door behind him. I know what it means when he does that. The drapes are drawn and the children have already been sent off, and my stunning king is going to take me. He walks over to the coach and looks me in the eyes.
“I want you to take it off.”
Slowly, sensually, I lift my hand to my face. I pull my bonnet from my head, dragging it across half my face, torturing him by only letting him see one of my passion-filled eyes.
Before I know it, he has my back against the floor. My dress and corset ripped off, strewn across the floor like Pontiac Indians. He turns me over, rubbing my back and hips aggressively.
“I think I’ve come to like it.”
He’s talking about the ink. I’ve recently gotten an image inked on to my lower back; a “tramp stamp” as they call it in the Berkshires. The image depicts fruit and vegetables – a bunch of blueberries, a cucumber, a leaf of lettuce. At first he was averse to it, said it was “nonsense” and “folly.” I know that his approval of my ink means something more; it means he has lost all inhibitions, transformed into an animalistic beast, ready to take his prey at any moment.
Next thing I know, he has entered me. I can feel the intensity pulsating through my veins just as I feel his unit pulsating through my vaginal canal. I am transported to another land; a land of unmitigated pleasure, of orgasmic delight. I am experiencing bliss – pure, unadulterated bliss. His shaft is the lord and I is the vassal; his thrust is the God and I worship the sticky ground beneath his feet.
The intense lovemaking is interrupted by a knock at the door. Flustered, I grab my clothing and jump behind the couch. Oh goodness gracious! What a frightening prospect. If a layperson were to find me naked in the living room, my reputation would be ever so blemished!
“Don’t worry,” he whispers in his soothing voice. “It’s the surprise.”
My heart jumps, and with it my clitoris. I don’t even know what to expect. Would it be a midget? A negro? I truly have no idea. Sensing my confusion – and mild trepidation – he comforts me.
“It’s going to be quite invigorating.”
But when he answers the door, it is simply a messenger. My prince of libido is visibly jolted.
“What’s this about?” he asks.
“Sir…” says the messenger, with an ever concerning tone. “The Stamp Act has been enacted.”
After a pause, John slams the door in the messenger’s face.
“DAMN! BLAZES!” shouts John furiously, accumulating the fire and rage which he knows makes me excited. “That was not the Iroquois prostitute I was expecting.”
“Stamp Act. I’LL SHOW HIM A STAMP ACT!”
Suddenly, he drops his breeches, turns 90 degrees to the right, and slaps me in the face with his shaft. I was shocked, horrified…but aroused like never before.
“It looks like I gave you a stamp,” he says, softly but harshly.
I look in the mirror and the left side of my face has a deep imprint on it, perfectly molded to the head of his beautiful appendage.
“And I intend to give King George one in a much similar fashion.”
Read Chapter 2 here!