admin

Lieutenant-General Sir Richard George would never become accustomed to mornings in this god-forsaken colony. The squawking cockatoos? addiction to slumber sundering meant he started every day on the wrong foot. Yawning, he slipped from their four-poster bed, careful not to disturb his more-sanguine wife, who, he?d always imagined, could sleep through anything, even mafficking parrots.However, despite Lady Elizabeth?s eyes remaining closed, she too had woken at first squawk. Further sleep had become a casualty of her gnawing realization that each day was now a rerun of the last few week's collie shangles. Inevitably her husband?s morning irritation with the birds would crystalize into an evening pique at their situation.Being Her Majesty?s Governor of New South Wales was by no means a sinecure, but it?d become increasingly obvious that being Sydney Town?s Grand Poobah brought with it the prestige of a London prison warden, albeit a gaoler with a more impressive clothing allowance.They knew he?d been shafted by the Colonial Office?s conservative braggarts. ?Old boy, what might one do with that young liberal whippersnapper? You know the one: a church bell wife, and held in high regard by Queen Victoria?s German,? had undoubtedly been asked over a late-night whisky in their Pall Mall club.?Sent as far from London as possible,? surely was the departing reply of a curmudgeonly colonial administrator while being assisted by the butler into his thick coat, felted fur top hat, and leather gloves. While he took his cane from the doorman and headed outdoors to a new-fangled steam-powered Hackney that would return him to lodgings, those that remained had made a straightforward decision. After they?d copped a mouse from those revolting Boston renegades, the ends of the earth were precisely where Her Majesty?s newest penal colony was located.As the lieutenant-general abluted, his wife pondered how she might be of assistance to her husband. Though she managed a smile as her index finger instinctively touched morning dew on the lips of her lady jane. The irony of lying in bed thinking of England, the extent of mama?s matrimonial advice, wasn?t lost on her.Being sent out of sight didn?t mean one could vanish from the Colonial Office?s mind. The local magistrates and employers knew that and weren?t bubbling around anymore. Their apparent sabre rattling had turned threatening: they?d petition Her Majesty if the Governor went through with an odious legislative interference with their legal rights. Surely all right-thinking men understood that convicts would keep on being bursa escort convicts unless their betters kept lashing them, again and again, to be certain their wickedness had bled out of their sinful bodies.The Governor, having finished his rudimentary ablutions, dressed, assisted by his valet, in full military regalia, including ceremonial sword and emu feathers in his hat, and headed downstairs to start his day reading the increasingly recalcitrant Sydney Morning Herald?s latest podsnappery.Elizabeth, finger having massaged lady jane?s stickiness into her waking button, would now be undisturbed and, rather than thinking about the Governor?s situation, she?d start her day in an altogether more satisfying manner.She grasped a bag o? mystery shaped object from her bedside table. The brass cylinder with a small key at one end had been a token of appreciation from a freed convict who, unbeknown to her husband, his wife had become all chuckaboo with. She resolved to visit Brigid later that morning to enquire whether those new-fangled technologies might be of assistance to Sir Richard.Lady Elizabeth wound the key until the instrument?s internal spring was tighter than the corset she?d worn to the Governor?s Ball. As always, scooping stickiness from her quim and lubricating the contraption?s smooth brass head, had guilt frissons breaking out on her skin.Pleasure was, according to the consensus of preaching vicars, the devil?s work. But, having paid prayerful attention to the Good Book, she realized the Good Lord had actually been silent on the subject of self-pleasure. It seemed obvious then that the Almighty wouldn?t have sent her this deep into a social backwater without allowing her a least a modicum of fetching mettle from the fairest flower brought into the colonies.The dappled sunlight from the gum trees outside her bedroom window fell upon her pale thighs and the dark curls of her quim. Relaxing in the morning warmth, she eased the first four sticky inches of clockwork machinery into her velvet. More fulfilling than the Governor, that first stretch of brass always took her breath away.Her finger released the key. She whimpered at the first sound of the spring unwinding. Each turn of the gears pulsed three brass inches from the contraption which impaled themselves deep in her lady jane. There was only one speed; again and again, the toy thrust hard and fast into her now squelching quim. That speed came with a unique and delectable vibration that rumbled through her entire nether regions.She embraced the morning?s more leisurely build in görükle escort her pleasure, content that she didn?t need to, as she did on high days and holidays, anxiously push herself fearing the Governor?s capacity to quickly wind down. It only took a minute or two?s key turning to reenergize the mechanical John Thomas, which was more than could be said for Lieutenant-General Sir Richard George, Her Majesty?s Governor of New South Wales.Holding herself at the cliff top of the agony of bliss, she rewound the spring, wondering what the cream of Sydney society, such as it was, would think of her daily dalliance with the pleasures of the flesh. That they?d actually know didn?t bear thinking about, but that secrecy somehow enhanced the pleasure of the flood of bliss and its rumbling aftershocks as they coursed through her.Keeping her morning routine private was why she was the first Governor?s wife who?d gone to the trouble of insisting on drawing her own bath and selecting her own garments. God forbid that the gossip mongers downstairs should ever glimpse the toy or inhale the scent of a Lady?s satiated cloven inlet. Though a maid had to be permitted into her corset room, after all, one couldn?t tighten one's laces oneself.Her dress selection was always of a lighter fabric, cut a little shorter than in London. She?d let it be known that the tropical heat had given her pause to rethink colonial fashions; the new cage crinolines were strong enough to support wide skirts without the need for burdensome petticoats. Multiple layers and London lengths were, therefore, not expected of Sydney society?a corset, cage crinoline and a lightweight dress were all that were obligatory. That message, though often honoured in the breach, was one the younger ladies, desirous of avoiding the vapours brought on by un-London-like temperatures, appreciated.Having breakfasted, she took a sun parasol from the butler but grimaced at his insistence on assisting her to step up into one of the Governor?s horse-drawn sulkies. The one that had a specific seat design that allowed a Lady to repose semi-comfortably with the cage crinoline partially tucked under the seat.They wound down the hill from Government House, through the Georgian administrative buildings, and headed for the docks on the western side of the Tank stream. Ironically choosing Sydney Cove as the location of the first settlement had been driven by access to that fresh water. But the stench intensified as one got closer to the cesspit that stream had become. Her husband had to spend the entirety of his bursa escort bayan first year?s appropriated monies from the Colonial Office on engineering works that now brought fresh water to the growing town from miles away.In truth, the horseman was nervous about taking her ladyship to the ramshackle convict side of the stream. Not just from a safety perspective, but also because many thought Miss Brigid O'Sullivan was a witch. He knew she?d solidified her importance, if not her likability, in the community by, at the Governor?s behest, successfully building a steam-driven riverboat which plied the rivers feeding the harbour. But that raised in his mind the fear that Lady Elizabeth might be consulting Miss Brigid about steam-powered carriages.That concern was in fact well placed. Not that transport was to be the subject of today?s conversation. But if the conversation didn?t go well, that would be the story Lady Elizabeth would tell her husband that evening. He?d be fascinated; rolling out the steam-driven carriage technology would place Sydney second in the Empire, after London. The Governor?s reaction she expected would be totally different to when she?d first advocated for Miss Brigid?s shipping suggestion.?What? A female convict! Lady engineers don?t invent steam paddle ships???Yes, dear. Let?s set the Irish convict free and see if she?s up to the task. We?ve nothing to lose. Imagine how your reputation would be enhanced if we get agricultural produce quickly down the Paramatta river.?His wife?s vision had come to pass. Two years into his tenure, the Governor?s reputation was rock solid; he?d secured improved access to food and water for Sydney. But apparently, that wasn?t good enough to make his proposal to limit the number of lashes a convict could receive to less than fifty a week acceptable to self-professed right-thinking people.Brigid?s welcome to the fumy workshop office was as effusive as one?s de facto patron could reasonably have expected. Like many of the ex-convicts, she didn?t dress in the mode of an English gentlewoman: Dutch-style knickerbockers and a leather jerkin were the extent of her fashion sense.Having served tea in the only fine china she?d ever owned, Brigid asked, in her lilting Irish accent, after the clockwork toy she?d presented her ladyship.?The contraption is, um ? quite pleasurable.??I?m developing a steam-generated version. More pleasurable, methinks.??Too noisy for the Governor?s mansion???Yes, bigger too. You sit on it as if on a horse?s saddle. As a gentleman would of course, not side saddle.??You?re particularly inventive.??Thank you, my lady. But I?m guessing my steam Sybian isn?t the purpose of your visit???Indeed. You?ve seen the Sydney Morning Herald???Yes. I admire the Governor: lashing is inhumane and ineffective. But he?ll be shafted by the Colonial Office.?