Herstories Ch. 02: Country Mouse

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Editor’s note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.



: Country Mouse, City Pussy

Many thanks to Lancerlott for his help proofreading this story.

My “Herstories” will be a series of women-focused stories set in historical setting. Today’s in set in Edwardian England. I am sure I have some historical details wrong, but please forgive my lapses for the sake of the story.

Also, I don’t know much Française, but love hearing the language. The French in here is with the help of Google Translate. I hope I am faithful to the language of love, but I fear I am not. I am interested in any corrections you’d like to pass me.


My sister-by-marriage, Yvonne, is a city woman. I am definitely more of a country mouse. She’s married to Henry, whose brother, James, I married a few years before Yvonne and Henry. There was a minor scandal when Henry announced to the family that he was marrying a French woman, but when everyone met her, the kerfuffle calmed down. She speaks perfect English, albeit with a French accent, so there’s no communication barrier between us and that helps. I think James’ and Henry’s mother holds some resentment toward her, but she certainly charmed their father. And she also charmed me with her warmth and humor.

As I said, Yvonne is a city woman. She and Henry spend most of their time living in the family house in London town. She says that, “Je mourrais sans le théâtre.” which even my school girl French can understand. She said she lived for the theatre, the opera, the museums, the parties, and (she whispers only to me to make me giggle) the gambling houses and le demimonde.

Unlike Yvonne, I prefer the quiet of the country most of the year. And James is perfectly happy as well, living with his parents in their Oxfordshire manor. Such a life gives me time to raise my children, ride my favorite mare, paint watercolors, and my little project of a hedge maze that I am growing.

Still, I do like adventures in the city. And that year, Henry was off on this year’s cruise on HMS Gallant in the Mediterranean and James was away for the summer on a business trip to America. I was delighted when a letter arrived with an invitation from Yvonne to come stay with her for a week, “Or two weeks, darling, let us see what comes our way.” I had my Irish maid Courtney pack my trunks and ordered up a carriage to drive us to the train station to go to town, leaving James Junior and Edith with their grandmother and nanny.

Courtney and I were exhausted from the trip when the cab pulled up in front of the family’s walled and gated three story townhouse. Our butler, Braithwaite, immediately opened the front and helped take down the trunks so that he could take them inside. Yvonne waited for us inside the door with that smile that could warm your heart. She’s a very striking, handsome woman, standing a couple of inches taller than I, with dark hair and smoky eyes. I always feel frumpy around her. She always dressed in the latest styles from Paris, from the 2 inch heeled boots on her feet to the tiny hat she wore askew on her head.

When I climbed the steps, she was as happy to see me as I was to see her. “Oh, ma Violette,” (she always pronounced my name the French way), “it is so good to see you.” She kissed me on both cheeks (which was normal) and then on my mouth (which was not normal). “Come in, come in, you must be exhausted and thirsty! Water? Tea? Something stronger?”

“Oh, blessings! Something stronger would be wonderful after I’ve had that glass of water.”

Yvonne turned to her (French, of course) maid, “Olympe, veuillez apporter de l’eau et du whisky à Madame Violet et un pour moi” and then led me into the front sitting room.

“Whisky is stronger than I normally drink, but I will take it. The train was ghastly today.”

“Come, Violette, sit with me. I have such wonderful plans for your stay. And dinner tonight will be a lovely gigot d’agneau with rosemary. You’ll feel so refreshed after your bath and I’m sure you remember how good Eulalie’s cooking is.” The town house cook was French as well, and her cooking was superb.

As I relaxed into a chair, Olympe returned bearing a tray with a water glass and two smaller glasses containing an amber liquid. I took the water so gratefully and drank it down all at once. Then Yvonne and I talked for a little while and we both drank our whiskies faster than we probably should have. When I drained the last drop, Yvonne stood and said, “Now for your bath, to clean all that dust and soot from you. The staff has been heating water since your arrival.”

We went up to the room James and I use when we’re in London and found Courtney there, already changed out of her traveling clothes and into her uniform. One of the reasons I value the redhead is because of her efficiency. She bobbed a curtsy and said, “The water is hot in the bathroom, ma’am. And I have your robe out. Shall I help you undress?”

“Oh!” Yvonne bursa escort ejaculated, “This will not do! You are tired and dirty as well, Courtney. I will be Madame Violette’s maid today. And I promise we will keep the water hot for you, so you can bathe after. Olympe will assist you. Now go down to the kitchen and Eulalie will give you something to eat.” She hustled Courtney out the door. “And now may I help you undress, Madame Violette?”

The bath was somehow more intimate than it would have been with Courtney. I had noticed Yvonne’s eyes roaming all over me as she undressed me in the bedroom, and when she held open my robe to slip into. She also did not turn away when I slipped back out of my robe and into the wonderfully hot water. Yvonne pinned my hair up while I sighed with the pleasure of the warmth. Then she insisted on spreading a scented oil across my skin, starting from my back, but continuing around all of the skin she could reach while I was in the tub.

Courtney would, of course, have never dared to oil my breasts, or reach under the water, between my legs to oil my hairy quim. But the French are different, no? So, I didn’t stop her. Besides it felt so good. Strange, but good. I knew I should feel it objectionable. But we were sisters-by-lawful-marriage after all.

At some point we sloshed a lot of water onto her, soaking her dress. She simply stood and shed her dress and under-slips and returned to washing me wearing her corset, small pants and stockings.

When I was clean, she led me back to my room in my robe. She rang a small bell while we were in the hall and I saw Olympe leading Courtney into the bathroom to bathe in the same water I had been in. Yvonne left me in my bedroom to get dressed for dinner.

“It shall be casual tonight, ma petite chou, you can dress yourself, I think.” Then she left me so she also could dress in dry clothing.

We went shopping the next day. And visited the British Museum the next. At breakfast on the third day, Yvonne was buttering a croissant when I came down to the sun room where we always ate our first meal. “How did you sleep, dear Violette?”

“Very well, thank you, Yvonne. Et tu?”

“Bon! Tres bon! I have a little excitement planned for us tonight, my dear. If you are willing?” A plump but pretty maid whom I did not know poured my coffee. “Please say you’ll come.”

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

Yvonne took on an air of nonchalance. “I have received an invitation to a most exclusive party with marvelous women you just have to meet.”

“Sounds most interesting, I look forward to it.”

“But,” she said pursing her lips. “It is of le demimonde.” I loved to hear that word with her French accent. It made it sound even naughtier. “But fear not for your reputation. There will only be women at this party.”

I giggled. “I am not worried about my reputation, dear Yvonne. And I was secretly hoping you’d invite me out for something slightly naughty.”

“Oh! Qui! Bon! I am so happy you are saying oui. Before you came I had something made for you for this party. I hope you will wear it.”

“I’d be delighted. But is there anything special I should know before hand.”

“No. Rien. I shall write back to our hostess right after breakfast. We’ll have such a lovely time.”

I spent the day resting and catching up on my correspondence and then reading a rather scandalous novel by a Mary Cholmondeley, called Red Pottage. Late in the afternoon, I had Courtney do up my hair and then Yvonne swept into the room followed by Olympe carrying a bundle of clothes.

“I’ve asked Olympe to dress you tonight, Violette, darling. I hope you don’t mind. And may I borrow your Courtney to dress me, s’il vous plait.”

I thought that silly, but I agreed and Yvonne swept back out of the room with Courtney trailing behind. Olympe helped me undress, but didn’t let me stop with my underthings. “Madame Yvonne has provided for tous tes vêtements, madame, even your lingerie, which has come from la France.” So, I let her undress me to my Eden-state.

The French underthings were amazing. I had expected a corset, but instead Olympe presented me with what she called a bustier made of white silk and lace and light whale bone that caresses my skin and let me breathe while emphasizing my bosom. I shivered as she slid the silk stockings up my leg — shivering either from the way she touched me or the softness of the silk I’m not anymore sure — and attached them to garters hanging from the bustier. I was intrigued by the feeling of the garters tight against my naked buttocks. A light set of hoops came next and a single petticoat. She then reached for the dress.

“What about my knickers?”

“Madame Yvonne said only if Madame asks.”

“And does Madame Yvonne often skip her bloomers?”

“As often as not, Madame.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Still I would like them.” She knelt before me and held the knickers and I stepped into one silky-soft leg and then the other. escort bursa It seemed wrong to have my garters inside my knickers, but I did not ask her to rearrange me.

And then she picked up my dress. Oh, that marvelous, scandalous dress. It was red and black, silk and cotton and it revealed a risqué amount of my ankles. The neckline was low, leaving the tops of my bustier-enhanced breasts to show quite clearly. And the cut left little to the imagination of my curved shape. The black sandals for my feet had 2 inches of heel.

I turned in front of the mirror, examining myself. “Did Madame expect it to look like this, Olympe.”

“Mais oui. Madame Yvonne will be most pleased.”

I briefly considered backing out of the night, but instead I said, “Well then you best do my hair and jewels.”

My next shock came as I came down the stairs to meet Yvonne in the drawing room. I certainly didn’t expect to come into the room to find a man in an evening suit pouring gin into two glasses. “Oh! Excuse me!” Only to have the man turn to me and have him actually be my sister-in-law. “Oh! Oh my.”

“You look lovely, tonight, Violette. Stunning.”

“You look um, stunning as well, Yvonne.” I took the gin she gave me. “You look most handsome in a man’s dress.”

“I’m glad you think so.” She posed for me and I suddenly realized that there was a small mustache above her lips.

“Do you often visit le demimonde as um, Monsieur Yvonne?”

“On especial occasions.”

“And Henry know about it all?”

“Oh, darling, Henri and I met while I was in evening dress. He approves.”

“I’m learning more about you all the time. Will you be my escort tonight then?”

“If you’ll have me?”

“I think it’ll be smashing.”

Thirty minutes later, Mssr Yvonne handed me down from the family carriage in front of a small in-town mansion in an area I didn’t recognize. There was no footman in front, but there was a young woman dressed in a butler’s livery. She greeted us by name, “Mssr and Madame Montfort-Shaw! So good to see you again. Madame will be most pleased.”

“But I haven’t ever been here before,” I whispered to Yvonne as, intimate hand on the small of my back, she guided me up the stairs.

“It is all just polite fiction, Violette. There is much polite fiction tonight.”

We were soon in the door, divested of our cloaks, and I was being introduced to our hostess who Yvonne called “Mrs. Judith Smythe.” I knew her, actually, by another name: Dame Judith Pennsington. I was a little startled by her nom de la nuit, and that she would host a party of le demimonde, but I accepted it as “polite fiction.”

Our hostess was in her fifties, a striking woman with greying hair, a large bust and round waist who I’d seen strike fear into the kind of man who would charge into battle without a moment’s thought. She bent and kissed my hand in a way that, had a man done it, would have required my husband to call him out. From her, it elicited a confused and rather pleasant feeling.

“We shall talk later, my darlings,” Dame Judith said, dismissing us into the party itself.

My eyes grew wide when we passed the doors to our hostess’s ballroom. Not because it was populated only by women — I’d come to expect that — but by the variety of women. Young and old, some dressed in men’s clothes, but the majority dressed in slightly risqué dresses. A young blonde woman (I didn’t think she was a Lady) came to us immediately, holding a tray with glasses of wine and gin. She wore only a short skirt, showing off her legs to be sure, but also leaving her breasts bare for all to see. I found myself staring until Yvonne plucked a glass of gin and pressed it to my hand. It was only then that I saw she was not the only servant so attired.

“Did you like what you saw, chère Violette?”

“Rather startled, monsieur,” I replied.

“Still, they were most lovely breasts, no? With such pink and turgid nipples?”

I took a rather larger sip of gin than normal; I had indeed been fascinated by her breasts. “Well, yes.”

Yvonne took me around the room to meet the guests. Here was Catherine, whose husband owned a Fleet Street newspaper. She was talking to Agnes, whose husband was a member of parliament. Over there was Abigail, dressed in men’s evening wear, whom I’d seen reading poetry once, talking to a woman introduced as Blanche, but whom I knew to be Princess Eleanor, daughter of the late King George’s youngest sister, and to a woman who I could not place but who was introduced to both Yvonne and I as Charlotte.

I knew about a third of them before the party and was duly surprised to see them here, as much as they may have been surprised to see me. Most who knew me knew also that I was Yvonne’s sister by law, but no one commented on it. There were society women, librarians, artists, and wives. Wives of military men, wives of businessmen, and wives of politicians; I’d say three-fifths were married.

We moved around the bursa escort bayan room and talked to the other women, and as we did my eyes were opened to sights I’d never thought to see.

Women, especially those dressed as men, made free with the bodies of the servants. I saw their breasts cupped and hands raised under their skirts to touch … well I couldn’t even say the words. The servants never complained; only giggled.

Women casually held hands, which was not unusual, but the way they held each other’s hands evoked more than casual friendship. I saw women with arms around each others’ waists, sometimes straying down to bottoms for undisguised caresses.

I saw two women at the edge of the room embrace and kiss as lovers do, mouths obviously open. No one called them on it. A few nearby women even raised their glasses toward the lovers and laughed encouragingly.

For Yvonne, this clearly seemed quite normal and I tried to pretend like it was that way for me too. But I was feeling something inside me that I associated with the more pleasurable moments in my marriage bed, and that confused me. Thus, when Yvonne pulled me close to her side with a hand around my waist, I did not object. And when that first servant came round again with more drinks, Yvonne told her that, “my wife” was fascinated by her breasts before and asked permission for me to feel them.

I gasped and said, “No. I couldn’t.”

“But I would like you to, madam,” the servant laughed with an Irish accent. “Please. Will mine be the first tits you’ve fondled?”

I blushed but said nothing and, after her and Yvonne’s encouragement, I found myself reaching forward and cupping her breasts in my hands and even feeling the flesh of her nipple with my thumbs. It was an amazing feeling and I forgot myself for a second before I started and pulled back. The servant laughed and said, “If you’d like to play with me cunny as well, madam, it is uncovered beneath me skirt for you.”

“I um, no I think not.” And I took another glass of gin.

Just then we heard a small gong ring and “Mrs Smythe” announced, “Our first entertainment for the night will commence in five minutes in the salon. Please join us.”

Yvonne asked me if I wanted to see and I said, “Yes please,” thinking it would be a time to assemble my thoughts as we listened to music or poetry. How foolish I was.

In the salon, there was a small raised “stage,” with a curtain in front of it. There were fewer seats arranged to view the stage than women to sit in them so many seats had two women squeezed together or one woman sitting on another’s lap. That was how Yvonne and I sat, with her on the bottom holding my hips in her hands.

Mrs. Smythe announced, “For your enjoyment, ladies and gentlemen, I present, ‘The Snake Charmer.'” She stepped out of the way and one of the scantily clad servants pulled the curtain aside to reveal a swarthy skinned and dark haired Indian woman wearing a gauzy skirt and holding a musical pipe of some kind. On either side of her were large covered baskets.

“Oooh, this is a new one,” Yvonne whispered behind me as everyone politely clapped for the performer.

The woman stayed perfectly still until the applause stopped, then raised the pipe to her lips and started to play. The basket on her left started rocking, and then its top started moving as well. I steeled myself, expecting to see a snake rise from the basket, and so was totally surprised to see first a pair of dancing hands and then the face of a young woman rise from it.

We all gasped as we saw her head was as bald as a man’s, and she had no eyebrows. As her small bare breasts cleared the basket, I noted how white her skin was. Not albino, but the ivory skin most valued in England. And when her swaying hips appeared, I gasped to see no hair covering her sex, exposing her very pink folds of skin for all to see. I found I couldn’t take my eyes off her cunny, as that servant had called the womanly parts.

She danced with her whole body swaying and twisting to the music, her hands always raised above her, her tongue also dancing out of her mouth as if tasting the air like a snake would. She stepped out of the basket and the tone of the music changed, so that she slowly folded herself to the floor and writhed there until the music stopped.

Then the music started again, different, and I looked at the charmer who was now playing a different pipe. Then the other basket opened and we saw the hands and then face of a negress, also hairless, writhe and dance her way upright, and step out of her basket. Her womanly parts were also free of hair and the smooth darkness of her skin could only be called beautiful, even though I’d never thought about beauty and black people before in the same breath.

The music changed again — now the charmer was playing both pipes at once and the white skinned snake woman rose once more from the floor. The dark skinned and light skinned “snakes” danced toward each other and writhed against each other, tongue flicking the air between them, flicking each other’s tongues. I noticed that there was a heat between my legs that, while pleasant, was quite inappropriate. I noticed Yvonne’s hot breath on the back of my neck.

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