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The three-masted ship left Portsmouth, England yesterday. Before I left, I was told that
we
would average eight knots. That would mean seventeen more days at sea before we reached
New York. Rather than a burden, I viewed this journey as a holiday that only the wealthy
could afford.
I decided to wear my best bodice as I strolled the deck, pushing-up my twenty year-old
*** to the rest of the world. I was proud to sport such pretty firm ***; I was overjoyed
to be departing dreary England.
What a perfect day on the Atlantic!
What a perfect moment for me, a young woman from the poor south end of London bound for
the prosperity of America!
The air was clear as it is in winter, but it was August. The bright sunshine warmed
my face while the breezes from the chilled sea made my nipples erect.
A few soft white clouds dangled so low enough that they seemed but a few fathoms beyond
the reach of my slender fingers. I had only seen the sea before from the shore. While
a few of the passengers expressed fear at not being able to see the land, I was thrilled
at the sight of nothing but water.
No adventure, after all, is without risk.
This was the same ocean of Ericson and Columbus centuries ago. They plied these same
waters with no maps at all. Their minds must have been filled with images of giant monsters
capable of destroying an entire ship with a single bite or a swipe from a gargantuan
tentacle. I
thought of the courage they must have had, not fully knowing what might lie at the end
of this unimaginably huge sea.
The sounds came from the waves and the gentle groaning from the wooden lathing of the
ship. The sails were quiet as they were filled with wind. I looked up at them, filled with
the clear air, as a sign that my fortunes would be so much better soon. I had heard
that America was a place where chance meant something totally different than it did in
England in the 1890′s.
In America, a girl like me could turn her skills in baking pastries into prosperity,
so long as I
was willing to work the long hours I would have to work anyway.
In America I would have customers. In England, I would have an employer.
My fulsome *** and high cheekbones had attracted the attentions of all the crew and
most of the male passengers. I would soon learn that my buxom figure was also noticed
by The Baroness of Cardiff.
She was lovely, with medium blonde hair about the same color as mine. She was no more
than three years older than me, but there was something about the structure of her face
that
informed everyone that she was of Royal lineage. Even if she had not worn the clothing of a
noble woman, simply the way she walked expressed the privilege of her birth. Though she was
by no means unattractive, she did lack my female endowment.
The Baroness was accompanied by a beautiful auburn-haired lady in waiting named Emily,
of no more than 19 years of age. They both seemed quite jealous of the attentions paid
to me by the men on board. I would soon learn that a combination of power and jealously
could give form to oppression and brutality. Had I been better schooled in England, I would
have known this.
I only noticed the stares of all the men on board and it became a point of pride for me.
I
never had thought of myself as beautiful, or even especially pretty. Yet these stares
made me
blush with a pride I had never felt before. I did always prefer the stares of young ladies,
but in Victorian England that was something not even to be thought about.
The sleek, fast barkentine ship knifed through the water with its three mainsails. The ship
itself became a *** image for me. So fast, so proud, so undeniable in its forward progress!
As I watched the water being cut by the ship's bow, I began to imagine such wicked scenes!
Would Some of these men actually fight each other for a chance to *** my 20-year-old
***? I played-out scenarios in my mind as to which young man would win a brutal fight
to stab his turgid *** inside my ***.
Maybe even more *** was the idea of which wealthy gentleman would be the highest
bidder in British Sterling for that same pleasure. I would be left with a *** filled with male
seed in either event. It would be of far more benefit to me if an older wealthy man left
me with a valuable tribute after the event was over. At least, it would compensate me
for a possible pregnancy.
I wavered in my fantasies. Which scenario would produce a more intense ***? In some
ways the idea of taking payment to surrender my virginity excited me more than being penetrated
by a younger and harder ***.
I did enjoy all the attentions. I returned the smiles of every man on the ship. For the
first
time in my life, I felt as though I was the center of attention. I had never needed much
to light the fuse of my *** imagination. It made my heart race to think of myself as
a 'trollop'.
Somehow, the thought of being a *** was a liberating rebellion against my strict
upbringing. It made my little *** moisten to think of how shocked my family and British
society would be. Perhaps I was rationalizing my journey to America. I did want so much
more opportunity, but I also welcomed escape from the late Victorian era's Anglican view
of women as servants.