Out West – Lady Cyn

[My thanks to SerradaC, who is collaborating with me on this tale of the old West]

*

So this was New York? My first thought was that it was not in the slightest like old York. Still, we had crossed the Atlantic and survived, the porters were polite and helpful, and the lawyer’s representative was there as arranged; that was a bit of a relief. The long crossing had given me plenty of opportunity to reflect on what I was doing. If I am honest, there had been a few dark nights of the soul during the long voyage when I really had begun to doubt my mission.

However, whatever I had decided, the sudden deaths of Mama and Papa had already shattered my world, and there was some relief from my grief in the journey and my mission. The heir to the estate was my brother Tim. My elder sister, Gwen, was married off successfully to Lord March, where she continued to do much as she had at home, which is to say she ruled the roost with a whim of iron. Papa had doted on her, and Mama, as ever, had done as Papa wanted. Tim and Gwen took after Papa, they liked to get their own way; I was more like Mama.

As the runt of the litter, I was the next one to be married off, and once I reached the age of eighteen, Mama and the great company of aunts had redoubled their efforts. As a younger daughter with a small dowry, I was hardly a great catch, and unlike my sister, I lacked obvious charms, and these things rather hindered any progress when it came to marrying me off. Mama had been wracking her brains and my aunts had been beating the bushes so to say. I overheard Mama saying to Papa:

“But William, I am trying my best, but it’s not easy. She’s so petite and fragile.”

“If you mean she looks like a bloody China Doll and is a dwarf, just say so Geraldine! It’s your side of the family. How the hell am I ever going to be shot of her?”

“Oh William, that’s not fair. Four foot ten is not a dwarf, she’s just petite.”

“That’s as maybe Geraldine, but I want her married. Did you get anything from the enquiry to Elsbeth? Your sister is a good match-maker.”

“You mean that she’s a dreadful flirt and gossip, but yes, as it happens, I have. There’s a family of Nabobs arrived recently from India in her part of Dorset, and they have a son who might just be suitable for Cynthia.”

“Why, is the little bugger blind?”

“Oh William, quiet, what if she was to overhear you?”

Good point, Mama, I thought, my ear glued to the door, what if?

“The point, dearest, is they made an awful lot of money out there and want to marry off their heir into an aristocratic family, but they have no breeding, and Elsbeth says she thinks their son maybe one of those fellows.”

“What bloody fellows, Geraldine? You mean he’s a bugger?”

“Oh William! Must you?”

“Yes, I bloody must. Well, Cynthia looks enough like a fella to suit his tastes. So, let’s go down, we can stay at the house and see what the men have done with the new electricity I had them install.”

And that was why they were down in Dorset, trying to marry me off. I didn’t know what a “bugger” was, but it didn’t sound good. Alas, whatever the workmen had done with the electricity thing, some fault caused a fire which suffocated Mama and Papa while they slept. It was, I felt, all my fault. But what was to become of me now?

Mr Davis, the family lawyer summoned Gwen and myself to a meeting in town after the funeral.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing, “first, my condolences.”

After we had murmured our appreciation, in Gwen’s case with some impatience, he went on.

“As you know, the estate is entailed on your brother, Timothy, who now becomes Lord Sharpton. The various business interests are held in a company of which he is chairman, and you are beneficiaries.”

“Yes, yes,” Gwen interrupted, impatient as ever, “but cut to the chase man, how much?”

I blushed for her. She was just like Papa and Tim, they would have their own way at whatever cost.

“I was coming to that your ladyship. You inherit a clear ten thousand pounds a year and the, erm, property in Dorset.”

Gwen smiled. She did not need ten thousand pounds a year, Bertie March, her husband, was worth a fortune, but Gwen did like money.

“House in Dorset needs work. It was insured I take it Davis?”

“Yes, your ladyship, and I will remit the amount to your account as soon as they settle up.”

“Good, good, well thank you, I must go, things to do, people to meet. Come along Cyn.”

“Sorry, your ladyship, but I must tell Lady Cynthia about her inheritance.”

“Oh, oh yes, I suppose you ought really. Well Cyn, let’s see what Pa left you.”

I had been about to protest, but was glad Mr Davis had intervened.

“Well, Lady Cynthia, your father left you two thousand five hundred a year and his interest in the mining company, along with the flat in the Albany and a house in New York.”

I was a little stunned.

Two thousand five hundred was a figure upon which I could live quite comfortably, and it was lovely to have a small place of my own in town. Gwen, of course, had Bertie’s house in Mayfair, so had no need of a pied à terre, but it would suit me well. But the company and the house in New York, what had Papa been thinking?”

“Well, your ladyship, it’s a tidy sum, and if you want, we can sell the house in America. But the question is where is the new earl?”

That was, indeed, the question.

Tim was made in the same mould as Papa. He was strong and athletic, a rowing and cricket blue at Cambridge, he was the finest horseman in the county and the best shot. They still talk about that deer in the Highlands which he took out at some impossible distance. Myself, I felt sorry for the poor deer, but men, and some women, seem to admire that sort of thing, and Tim was not short of adoring women. Handsome, intelligent, accomplished and very rich with an ancient title and a country estate, what was not to like?

Papa’s answer would have been Tim’s propensity to interfere in what Papa thought was not his business. I had once overheard them arguing:

“But Pa, the bloody mines in California are going to require money spending on hydraulics, the easy pickings are gone. We’ve cleaned up, let’s bugger off to South Dakota. Ronnie at Bucks’ says it’s the next gold rush.”

“Damn it Tim, I am still master here. When you’re in my place, you can make the decisions, and mine is that we invest in California, we’ve done well out of it.”

“Damn it Pa! We can get in on the ground floor in Dakota, let me go scout it out.”

“No, no. But tell you what Tim, why don’t you go to New York and open the house. Talk with Smithers and then let me know what it will cost to invest in hydraulics?”

“If you want Pa!”

As Papa did want, Tim went. I had been surprised at his sudden acceptance of Papa’s suggestion, but it soon became clear that he had done so in order to get himself to Dakota. Three months after he had arrived we got a cable from Smithers in New York saying that although Tim had been in California, he was not longer there. Further enquiry established that he had left for Dakota.

Papa was furious, and had promised he’d “deal with Tim” when he got back from Dorset. But that never happened.

“Mr Davis, might I make a suggestion?”

Davis smiled at me.

“Of course my lady, suggest away.”

“As I have a house there, might I go to New York and make enquiries as to where my brother is?”

I heard a snort laugh. It was Gwen.

“You!” God Cyn, really?”

“Actually your ladyship, that’s not a bad idea.”

And so it was settled. And that was how I came to be in New York.

I had done a lot of reading in the London Library about the USA, and from what I could gather, New York was much like any European city, and so I could pack lightly and purchase suitable clothing there. But further West was a puzzle, and I should need expert advice. The last thing I wanted in territory still not recovered from their Civil War was to draw attention to myself by standing out as an obvious foreigner. I had enough baggage at home; time to go lightly.

I had set off with only my maid, Helen, for company, and what was needed en route. The voyage would have been quite interesting had I not spent much of it suffering from sea sickness. To add to my woes Helen, who was an incorrigible flirt, had found herself a nice sailor, and as I could not stand in the way of true lust, I had let her go. Smithers, however, had found me some suitable candidates to replace her. I chose a very nice Irish immigrant girl in her early twenties, called Mary Catherine, who, lacking Helen’s charms, possessed plenty of good sense and strong arms. She came highly recommended, having served at a place called “Mrs Flannery’s Ladies’ Hotel”, which was a place free from men, I was told. She wanted to go out West, as they called it, and would, she said, be happy to serve me on the way. It was ideal, I did not really want to have to take a new maid back with me.

I liked Mary Catherine, or Kate, as I came to call her. Americans quite lack our class system, and while she was properly deferential to me as her employer, there was none of that subservience one gets from the lower orders in Britain. Indeed, and perhaps as my dear Mama once suggested, it was down to my being too informal with maids, she became more like a friend and travelling companion, although what happened in New York just before we left may, I suppose, have contributed to that.

Mary Catherine helped me open the house, which was on the rather boringly named “Fifth Avenue’, but I did like the brownstone construction, and rather thought I might keep the place on. Mary Catherine was a veritable force of nature, getting a house-keeper in and a skeleton staff to make it a fit and proper place to receive visitors. It might, I began to reflect, be fun to live in America. After all, what was there for me back in England except the flat in Albany?

I found New York quite fascinating. I had, of course, invitations to the Vanderbilt place and to the Roosevelts, the latter being in some rather complex way, cousins of mother’s family several times (and the Atlantic Ocean) removed. I spent a happy week-end (as they called it amusingly) up the Hudson Valley at Hyde Park, which was a quaint attempt an an American version of the country house. It was fun, and I asked Mary Catherine what she thought of the rather daring (as I thought them) new “Princess line” which seemed to have caught on here.

It was named, of course, after our own dear Princess Alexandra, the wife of that ghastly bounder, Bertie, the Prince of Wales, the only man ever to make a pass at me, but he was drunk at the time, and had mislaid his spectacles. The style was adorable – unlike him. It consisted of a dress without a horizontal waist seam, and was fitted instead with long, vertical tucks and darts to create an extremely slim, body-conscious look. This, I had always thought it would suit my figure better than the ghastly bustle and crinoline fashion favoured by Mama and Gwen. It was fine for them, with their ample bosoms to compensate for the bustle (and anyway, they had ample hips to match), but I looked like an unbalanced dwarf in the thing. The “Princess” line, which Mama had forbidden, was one I bought into in New York, and Mary Catherine agreed rather suited me. It was snug around the hips, which as I had none to speak of made me look slim, and it dropped rather elegantly to disguise my lack of height.

“Oh Miss, it looks so cute on you.”

I thought that was a compliment, though had to say that it would not have suited Mary Catherine’s figure, which was, shall we say, ample.

It was a splendid week-end, and though shy myself, I found American gregariousness, refreshing. I had, of course, no idea about American politics, but found it interesting that on matters of morality and education, the female voice seemed to have more influence than in my own country. I like that.

We travelled back down the Hudson via the railway on Monday afternoon and arrived back home to receive news that Smithers was coming to see me. I received him in the parlour, with Mary Catherine providing us with tea and scones. I invited her to stay, as what was going to happened would also concern her.

A small, somewhat buttoned-up fellow with pince-nez, Smithers looked like a man who sniffed a lot, but he knew his stuff. He had, he said, a lead on Tim. A contact of his in Kansas City knew a man who knew a man who had seen Tim, or said he had, in a place called “Sharpy’s Creek” in the wilds of South Dakota. He could, Smithers said, try to find us a guide. He seemed pleased when I clapped my hands, but his face took on a concerned look:

“I have to warn you Miss that getting to such a wild place will not be easy. I shall see if I can find a man to do it, but it is such a lawless part of the West that might take a while. Maybe a little more time will do it? I could not advise a lady like yourself to undertake the journey.”

Mary Catherine’s face fell. I felt almost affronted. It was bad enough Gwen implying I was a useless little thing who should stay at home and hide away, but for Smithers to join the doubters? I was so used to people patronising me because I was a woman, but also felt there was an element in it about my size. But I was a lady, and I thanked him, instead of doing a Papa on him and damning him to blazes.

“I do appreciate your care Mr Smithers. What do we say that I get to St Louis and we see from there. If it is too hard, I shall have had a pleasant trip through your beautiful country and no harm done?”

“That seems most sensible Miss, I shall make the arrangements and you should be ready to go by the end of the week.”

That was that.

Mary Catherine and I spent a pleasant day sight-seeing and after dining. We decided that on the morrow we should consult about a suitable wardrobe, and she seemed delighted when I told her that we should be getting her new things as well. I decided I wanted an early night. I asked if she would help me undress.

“Of course Miss, it’s my favourite thing!”

“What is?” I said, slightly taken aback.

“Clothes Miss, you have some wonderful ones. When I was a little girl my sisters and I used to love dressing our dolls, and you are such a delicate little thing, almost like a doll. I just love dressing you up. I like undressing you too!”

Dear Mary Catherine, no beating about the bush. Something about the idea of her seeing me as a doll made me feel quite peculiar.

“Why thank you!”

She unbuttoned my dress and carefully helped me out of it.

“Shall I unlace your bodice Miss?”

“Please Mary Catherine.”

I could feel her warm breath on me as she unlaced me. Used as I was to my maids seeing me like this, I felt a sudden shyness. My maids were, of course, well-trained and knew their station. Mary Catherine felt, somehow, different. I was suddenly conscious that she was rather taller and larger than me.

“Drawers too, Miss?”

As she began to pull them down, I felt her hands trembling. Her hot breath on my naked bottom cheeks made me tingle.

“You look very pretty in them Miss – and without them too,”

Not knowing the proper order of these things, she put my clothes away leaving me standing there naked as she bustled about. She turned and looked at me. I was conscious of a blush rising.

“Do, do you think so Mary Catherine?”

“Oh yes Miss, like a little china doll.”

The words made me feel a little strange.

“It feels kinda strange Miss, you being all naked and me still clothed. Do you need help? I know some ladies do?”

“Help, Mary Catherine?”

“Yes Miss. Some ladies like the help of other ladies when they are stressed, especially unmarried ones.”

“Stressed, Mary Catherine?”

My breathing was ragged.

“Oh Miss, come on, I’ve been seeing those cow eyes you’ve been directing at me at times, you saying you don’t feel nothing special? It’s okay Miss, I’ve been with ladies before.”

Suddenly I felt overwhelmed. I could not put my emotions into coherent thoughts, I just felt warm and tingly.

She came to me. Her breasts seemed larger than ever. Undoing her front, she pulled me to her. As in a dream I saw her large breasts emerge as she unfastened herself. She pulled me onto her lap and put my face to her breast. I sucked. Oh it felt so comforting. She patted my head and stroked my hair.

“There, see Miss, doesn’t that feel better?”

It so did. I suckled her, feeling her nipple harden. Her hand parted my thighs, and I felt it on my pussy. She patted me there and I gasped into her nipple. She began to rub me. I could hear her moan as I began to. Then she stopped.

“How was that Miss?”

I looked up, letting her breast go for a moment.

“Oh Mary Catherine, where did you learn that?”

“Well Miss, Mrs Flannery’s Hotel was for ladies only. Some ladies enjoyed my attention.”

I blushed. I could imagine.

“Thank you Mary Catherine, count me in.”

“Miss, there’s something I always wanted to try, would you be happy to oblige me?”

I wanted to please her, she was so sweet.

“Undress me Miss.”

I did so, gradually revealing her Amazonian figure. Her breasts looked wonderful and were complemented by full hips and arms and legs shaped by hard work. To my surprise, she wore nothing under her camisole, and with that off I found myself facing her ample bottom. She turned, her hands in my head, and my face was pressed into a forest of hair. The smell was musky. It excited me.

“Oh Miss, you look so cute, like one of those little Pixies in the books Ma brought from the old country. My little Pixie!”

I was mesmerised.

“Have you ever licked another woman, my little Pixie?”

I felt several sorts of thrill shoot through me. Though usually I hated being belittled, Mary Catherine calling me “her little Pixie” thrilled me beyond measure.

“No, Mary Catherine, have you?”

“Oh yes Miss, but they never lick me, I thought you being so sweet might want to help me. I can show you what to do and guide you.”

She helped me onto the bed and parted my thighs. As her tongue licked my pussy I felt tingles shoot everywhere. The top of my pussy felt especially sensitive.

“Now do me like that little Pixie!”

Her thighs were large compared to mine, but the whole of her was Amazonian. Kneeling between them, I wanted so much to please her. Nothing daunted by the hair, I found my way through the jungle to the pink oasis. I had never even seen my private parts, let alone another woman’s, but I wanted to taste. Her scent was overwhelming, but I wanted to taste so much. Her inner lips were quite unlike how mine felt. I was compact, she was not, and as I gazed I saw near the top of her pussy something harder. Instinctively, I licked it. She gasped and pushed my head into her gooey wetness. It felt so good.

I had no idea what to do. Overwhelmed with the scent, I pressed my tongue in, finding the entrance to her inner parts. Making my tongue a tube, I pressed it in then out. The way she pushed and pulled my head against her told me she was enjoying it, so I did more. My nose was pressing into the bud at the top of her pussy. She seemed to like that a lot, so I used my nose to tease her, as my tongue worked its way in and out.

“Oh good, good Pixie. Yes, get that tongue on my bud, and put your fingers in my cunt!”

I obliged. It felt like very heaven. I loved the taste, the intimacy, and there was in it, a desire to please her which gave me huge pleasure; a feeling that this was where I loved being. I thrust two fingers into her sopping wetness, and she moaned louder. As I licked and fingered her she got more and more aroused. I was delighted. She clearly shared my feeling, as she suddenly pressed my hand right in and gripped me with her meaty thighs. My face felt soaked. She was shuddering and groaning. For a moment I feared I had hurt her, but the noises were good ones, so I rested as she convulsed, loving the way she pressed me into her flesh.