Chapter 3: Discovering the Bawdy Nature of the Household

Charity did not stay long that evening, simply a period sufficient for the both of us to make the most intimate acquaintance and cuddle afterwards. The next morning, I awoke refreshed and relaxed, lazing in bed sinfully until I felt the first pangs of hunger. I disdained the need for servants to dress, so I made my way to the bath and drew water in the sink, then with a small towel made a whore’s-bath for myself, and yes, I had heard the term before and understood the implications. It refreshed me further, and afterwards I dressed in a light shift and a simple gingham dress, then went down to breakfast.

Siobhan was already up and finishing her coffee when I arrived. Without Uncle James around, we could relax our combative skills and simply be friends, so she waited while I was served and continued drinking her coffee. It was decided that today we would explore the grounds, as she had only arrived a few days before I and had little opportunity to explore herself. We would take a coach into Saratoga the next day and go shopping.

The MacAllister estate was devoted to raising horses, thoroughbreds for racing, and consisted of all the necessities to do so. While there were some cattle and chickens, these were only for milk, eggs, and such needed to maintain the residents of the estate; they were not sold at market. We spent a considerable time wandering through the barns and stables, along the fenced in pastures, and around the many small workshops and tack rooms spread out over the considerable acreage. The horses were absolutely magnificent, and I was not at all surprised when Siobhan informed me that but a short way back towards the town was the finest racing track in the country. Several other such estates were in the region, which was making a bid to replace Kentucky as the premier source of thoroughbred horses in America. Along the way I discovered one of the many joys of living on a farm - there were cats and kittens everywhere!

It was during this exploration that I began to discern just how informal living on the estate could be. Siobhan and I had been passing by the blacksmith’s shop and we noticed a young lady was inside talking with the blacksmith, a very large man with a trim beard. Neither of us paid it any note, and we stopped to talk by a fence near a side window. I stopped to watch a most curious sight, and Siobhan followed my gaze through the window.

First, the blacksmith turned from the young woman, whom neither Siobhan nor I knew yet, and stripped off his tunic and apron. Then, bare-chested, and a very impressive chest it was, he bent over a large barrel of water and immersed his head and upper body in it, cooling himself and washing his torso. Finished he walked back to the girl, who promptly knelt before him. He then undid his breeches and pushed them down his thighs, to stand before him with his manhood rampant before her. Eagerly she leaned forward, opening her mouth wide to take his cockshaft between her lips, and I was impressed with her ability, inasmuch as it was proportional to his large frame. Then as she reached between his legs to fondle the pendulous sack present there, she played a happy tune on the mouth organ, culminating in a crescendo satisfying to both player and played. Afterwards, she kissed him and took her leave, and he resumed his professional duties.

Mrs. Rourke and I crept away quietly and could scarce whisper to ourselves about what we had just witnessed before we found ourselves among others and were perforce required to stop. We were near what was called the bunkhouse, where the male staff had their rooms and kitchen, and several of the men invited us to lunch with them. Curious, we made our way inside, to find Jenny and Charity serving a hot luncheon in the dining area attached to the large kitchen. Most of the men came in, to wash and be seated, and we joined them at a one of several large trestle-type tables. Lunch consisted of a good vegetable soup and several meat sandwiches. I should note that while nothing of the like which we had witnessed before occurred as we dined, the men felt free to touch and caress Jenny and Charity most freely, placing their hands on the two girls’ backsides frequently, and neither of them seemed to be wearing undergarments.

After lunch, Charity showed us around the bunkhouse. It was a long and low-slung building with a number of rooms running down a central hallway from the dining area. Some of the rooms did indeed hold stacked beds, or bunks, for more junior workers. As a man increased in seniority and responsibility, he moved from a four-man room to a two-man room, thence to a small single room, and finally into a larger room, although bath facilities were in common.

It was in one of the larger rooms that we received our next shock. Charity was explaining how much larger a foreman’s room was and decided to show us by opening a door into one such. Ushering us in, we found ourselves in the presence of Jack Strong, a foreman, an older man intermediate in age between my uncle and Ahkbar Singh, and of a medium size and build but with very rough and capable hands, and Jenny. Both were as naked as the day they were born, with Mister Strong laying on his back while Jenny straddled him, riding him like the stallion that I could clearly see he was! His callused hands were pawing at her bosom, and she was squealing with delight as she gave him a vigorous ride. They both looked over as we came in the door, but neither made any effort to cover their nudity or terminate the ride. We made our embarrassed apologies and closed the door behind us.

Afterwards, Siobhan and I both wanted to talk about what we had seen that day and went into one of the large barns. We were distracted by one of the innumerable kittens deciding that we were exemplary prey, pouncing on us. Determining that we were not really overgrown mice, it playfully scampered off and we chased it up a set of stairs to the hayloft. We lost sight of it briefly, then followed it through a doorway into the other end of the barn. Below us we saw a breeding pen, in use.

The breeding pen was where a mare was placed when it was decided to breed her to a particular stallion. This was not allowed to be done haphazardly, but was followed quite closely, to develop specific bloodlines for instance, and required considerable care in the selection of the proper pair. At present, the mare was already in the pen, tied by her halter to a bar, and a young man called Little David from his stature (or lack of it, actually!) was leading a stallion into the stall. The stallion seemed to understand precisely what was about to occur and seemed rather anxious to begin, sporting an incredible tumescence. Maude, one of the house servants, was standing next to a bale of hay, watching the proceedings.

Once locked in the stall, the stallion rapidly got down to business, and as Siobhan and I spied on him, reared up and mounted the mare, burying himself, a most lengthy process. Then we stared goggle-eyed as Little David came up behind Maude. Undoing his own pants, he lifted her skirt to her waist and leaned her over the bale of hay, to repeat the act being performed before them. Both mares squealed with delight, and both stallions bucked and snorted their pleasure as well. Finally, when the stallion finished with his duty, he climbed off and watched Little David and Maude finishing theirs. Afterwards, Little David returned the stallion to the pasture and Maude returned to the mansion. My most coherent memory of the entire affair was that Little David was misnamed; Goliath would have been more appropriate, since his manhood was quite probably the largest I have ever seen! It was certainly the largest I had seen to that time, admittedly a very small number, but in hindsight I must stand by that statement, and as I write this memoir, I must say that I have since seen more than a few.

Both Siobhan and I crept away, to return to the other end of the hayloft, whereupon we lay down on a few coarse horse blankets to discuss these amazing scenes. The kitten followed us and curled up between us to sleep, and we discussed the amazingly debauched household we found ourselves in. She admitted that she had done all that we had seen with her own husband.

“That raises a question, Mrs. Rourke. Where might Mister Rourke be?” I asked.

Siobhan looked startled, then grinned. “Oh, he’s in Boston, but I fear he is quite busy pushing up daisies.” At my curious look, she continued, “He’s been dead these several years, Caroline. I am a widow.”

I apologized profusely, which she waved off as unnecessary. “I am curious,” I admitted. “You are not many years older than I, so how can you be a widow several years.”

“Well, you see, I married when I was your age, at sixteen, but within our first year found myself widowed. Michael died nigh on four years ago, so the pain is gone, but not the memories, and they were sweet memories indeed.”

“Go on. I am all ears,” I urged.

“Well, just in case you haven’t learned by now, I grew up in Boston, in a large Catholic family. Michael was my second cousin and a good six years older. I have to admit that when I was little, he was the most cruel and terrible tease, but then, when I was nine, his family moved across the country to California. I did not see him again for another six years. At that time, he was twenty-one and about to enter his last year at the Rensselaer school.”

“The what school?” I asked.

“The Rensselaer school. It is an engineering college, quite prestigious despite the ridiculous name. In fact, you rode by it on your trip here, it is only thirty miles south of here, near Albany. But anyway, he was visiting the family in Boston for a few days when we met again. I think it was love at first sight! He was no longer the snotty brat I remembered, and I was in my bloom, if I do say so myself. We wrote each other constantly, several times a day, and he found a position in Boston after he matriculated, at an engineering firm that built bridges. As soon as he came to town he asked my father for my hand, and we were married that summer. I was only sixteen, but my family knew Michael to be a good man with a fine position. We had a most glorious, if brief, marriage, although it got off to a most terrible start.”

“Really? How so?” I asked.

“It was my mother’s fault, really. I grew up in a very conservative household, and a very large family if you count cousins and all, but I was practically the only girl in the bunch! I had five brothers, and the only other girls in the family were a pair of twin newborn cousins! Momma was extremely religious, and marital relations were quite indistinguishable to her from the most sordid work of the devil. I led an extremely protected life. She never let me out of the house unattended, even when Michael was courting me, and she filled my head with the most terrible notions of what was to be expected of me by my husband,” admitted Siobhan.

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Siobhan. I mean, how did you and your brothers get here, if she didn’t take an active part?”

Siobhan grinned and shook her head. “That is because she played a most inactive part. On my wedding night, she advised me to lie back, grit my teeth, close my eyes, and repeat the rosary to myself while my husband had his dastardly way with me. It was a mortal sin to do anything more, and even that little would be sinful if it were not my husband’s marital right to force himself upon me. She had me so scared that I almost called off the wedding.”

“But you went through with it anyway,” I stated.

She laughed. “Good heavens, child, I had to! People had shown up from across the country, my father would have killed me!”

“So, what happened? I gather you discovered your mother was wrong?”

“Eventually. I was quite terrified that immediately following the ceremony, Michael was going to tear my wedding gown from me and ravish me right there on the altar. When that failed to happen, I relaxed somewhat until later that evening, when he loaded me into a carriage and drove us to a small house owned by a friend. The friend had agreed to lend us the house for a few days, until we could move my belongings into Michael’s. As he carried me across the threshold I burst into tears at my imminent ruin.”

Siobhan laughed quietly as she remembered her not so distant past. “Needless to say, my husband failed to ravish me on the floor of the foyer. At nine or so, we retired to our bedchamber, and I put on my new white nightshirt, and Michael removed his boots and shirt and settled into bed next to me. I was already cowering under the covers, and promptly burst into unbearable tears.” She sat up and looked at me intensely, her movements causing the kitten to wake and wander off. “To this day I bless Michael for treating me so gently that night. If he had simply taken his pleasure upon me, I have no doubt I would have ended as bitter as my mother. Instead, he took hours talking to me, calming me, professing his love for me. It was ridiculous. First, he had to talk me into pulling the quilt down, then the sheet, then into removing my nightshirt, and then finally into uncurling and laying back. At every step, I would comply, then begin crying again! It was utterly pathetic!”

“Well, then what?” I pressed.

“Well, then he touched me, and my tears turned instantly into tears of joy! It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck me and burned clear to my soul! My very flesh pulsed as he moved his hands over me, and I gasped and cried out my love for him as I grasped his body to mine. As soon as we had finished one course, I would begin begging for another, and we didn’t fall asleep until well after dawn. It was glorious!” she exclaimed, sinking back on the blankets in happy reverie.