Dolly's Ruse (Sisters Three 3)

Dolly's Ruse (Sisters Three 3)
Mikala Ash
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Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

I cleared a circle on the fogged glass and peered out at a vast sheet of white: the snowbound grounds of Allenby Hall. Above the distant ice-shrouded trees, the pale outline of the sun was visible through thin, leaden clouds. It was a beautiful scene worthy of any Christmas postcard, but for all that it was a cruel deceit. The picturesque vista cloaked a deadly reality, for a fathom of snow entombed the landscape and smothered the helpless creatures beneath. That was my melancholy state. I felt trapped, unable to extricate myself from a suffocating fate.

Instead, I should have been happy, or at the very least satisfied. The fornication, my stock in trade, had been as unrelenting as the snowfall. Indeed, during the last week all my lusty holes had been filled countless times over.

“At last,” I murmured. “It has finally stopped.”

“Come back to bed,” Anthony Jamieson implored. “It’s too bloody cold to be out. The fire in the hearth has died, but not the furnace in my heart.” He chuckled at his saucy wit.

“My heart is incandescent with desire,” added Mathew, not one to be outdone by his twin brother. “My cock is harder than an oak and is impatient for your attention. Lying in such a state next to my brother is, however, unbecoming in a gentleman of my manly nature.”

Though my quim pulsed with lust, I ignored their bantering. The Jamieson twins, impecunious younger sons, were customers of long standing. Having found me at Mrs. Q’s bawdy house, they often and enthusiastically indulged their love of sodomy, my particular speciality, whenever they were in funds, and were as generous as they could be. They had even invited me to move from Mrs. Q’s to rooms in the fashionable West End, where I would be theirs exclusively, their own private whore. My objections had simply been financial -- they would not be able to afford both the rent and the extra they gave me to pass onto my impoverished Mama and my two half-sisters Holly and Lolly. My and my full sisters’ goal was to get them out of the Whitechapel slum in which they lived, and away to the country. Then I had a flash of inspiration, and suggested the twins invite a third gentlemen into the scheme to defray the costs.

Anthony interrupted my recollections. “I’m afraid our rampant displays of lust have scared away your Frenchman, Dolly.”

He referred to that third gentleman, Pascal Baudelaire. He had come into my life on a search for my sister, Molly, because of her nascent relationship with an engineer, Mr. Lewellen, who had been brutally murdered. Molly had stumbled upon the poor man. The fiend James Polk, who had minutes before found the dying man, watched from the shadows, and had mistakenly believed Lewellen had told her something as she comforted him in his last moments. That mistake had set off a tumultuous couple of weeks, replete with gruesome murders, violent kidnappings, daring robberies, and shootings with a roiling undercurrent of espionage. Hardly the usual fare of an East End whore or toy manufacturer, which was Pascal’s family business. He too had shared our adventure by being kidnapped and losing a finger to the maniac’s knife.

Pascal also enjoyed the depths of my arse, and I had brought him to Allenby Hall while I visited my sister who was recovering from that same ordeal. The twins, friends of Mr. Allenby, had unexpectedly shown up just in time to be caught by the snowstorm.

With the intention of making the twins’ plan a reality I introduced Pascal to the joys of group copulation, and the idea of sharing the cost of the rooms which the Jamiesons proposed. He had been cautious at first but had soon given himself up to the novelty of enjoying my holes in the company of others, a new experience for him. He quickly agreed to the proposal so when he visited London, he could use me with the two Jamiesons, rather than the untold hundreds who visited me at Mrs. Q’s. His contribution would allow the twins to finance my plan of relocating Mama. All that planning, unfortunately, would be for naught. It wouldn’t be possible because of that bitch, Miss Clayton.

“Though the bed is large, I think Pascal was afraid of accidently touching my impressive member,” Mathew added with a mischievous chuckle. “He should realise that I have eyes only for you, Dolly.”

“I rather think, after our latest debauch,” Anthony mused drowsily. “He has retreated to his own room to recuperate before Dolly once again roused him into action. He is an impressive stallion, I must admit.”

That he was. I sighed, feeling his future departure most keenly. Not from this bed, but from my life entirely. A surge of guilt rushed though me. I hadn’t told the twins of the disaster that had befallen me and Pascal -- that he would be soon leaving England, never to return. They would have to give up the idea, and I would lose any chance of escaping Mrs. Q and saving Mama.

Our sojourn here in Molly’s employer’s country estate had not been all fun and games, hugs and kisses and inevitable bedroom antics. Our stay had been overshadowed by the consequences of the Lewellen murder in London, and the unexpected appearance of two Agents of the Queen, the catlike Miss Clayton and her equally predatory Miss Felicity Cressy.

They suspected Pascal of being a foreign agent attempting to steal military secrets from Mr. Allenby’s factory. Miss Clayton had ordered me to spy on him, a repellent task which I’d soon whispered to him under the bedclothes. Despite the cost of ending my dream, I’d begged Pascal to leave England as soon the snowstorms had relinquished their bitter hold. He resented the need, having protested his innocence, but had agreed, albeit reluctantly, that the more distance between him and Miss Clayton the better.

Feet padded behind me as one of the twins grabbed me by the waist, lifted my silk bathrobe, and with his feet and knees he pushed my legs apart so his determined cock could find my semen-filled cunny. Our debauchery had caused us to run out of Cumberland prophylactics, which meant yet another douche with Mrs. Q’s secret potion.

He draped a blanket over both our shoulders to keep us warm while he fucked me. Was it Anthony or Mathew? I couldn’t tell. They were truly identical in every respect, even to the size of their manly organ. The only way to tell Mathew from his brother was to insert my finger in his arsehole while he fucked me. He didn’t enjoy it, while his brother did. Whoever it was, his thrusts were urgent and powerful, and I soon rested my forehead against the cold pane and lost myself to his plundering.