From the Baroness's Diary:
The erotic escapades of Baron Beardley's wife
The Diaries Book 1
by
Prologue
The diary pages
which you are about to read—and those of a few other volumes which are due to
be published soon—fell into the hands of X, who was an employee at Beardley
Manor.
This candid
record of a young woman’s love-life, Lady Chloé’s memoirs illuminate far beyond
the usual run of erotic literature. These diary pages reveal how a young woman,
even secluded in a lost manor in the middle of nowhere by a much older and
autocratic husband, discovered pleasures she never would have thought could be
wrought from her body and soul. It is a woman’s search for answers to the
world’s most questioned topic, the riddle that plagues the universe: the
pleasures of sex.
Last year, while
visiting a world-renown art gallery in London I met with X and she told me she
had done the paintings for The Baroness’s Series using Lady Chloé’s
tales, and gifted me the salvaged diaries with the condition that I translate
and publish them.
With great
attention, I perused page after page—I must confess I couldn’t put them down
until I read the last one! I knew I had an extraordinary tale of lust and love
in my hands.
Lady Chloé de la
Fleur Beardley, no doubt, never dreamed that her memories would someday be put
before others’ eyes, but X and this author are completely sure she would be
very happy to have you reading about her adventures—and misadventures.
So know, readers,
that all this author had to do was to select the diary’s entries, translate
them into English, and, voilá, with a
bit of adaptation, bring Lady Chloé’s confessions to your hands. I do that with
no guilty conscience as Baron Beardley passed away a month ago with no direct
heirs, but a pompous nephew who is serving time in jail now because of…well,
that is a whole other story.
Welcome to Lady
Chloé’s world!
Chapter 1
My Husband, the Eleventh Baron
Beardley
Mon Cher Journal,
I’m
excited! I’m aroused! I—oh!—I am so happy.
Let me
start at the beginning.
I am the
sole daughter of an impoverished French Marquis and my name is Chloé de la
Fleur—or rather, it was. Yesterday morning, it was changed to Chloé de la Fleur
Beardley, because now I am a married woman.
My
husband’s name is Joseph Georges Charles Fitzroy Von Tussen Beardley and he is
the 11th Baron Beardley. He is 40 years old and a wealthy English peer.
When he
was introduced to me at my London debut party, I found him to be charming. He
is blond, with gentle blue eyes, lean, and not much taller than I am. He is
more fit and more handsome than most gentlemen of his age.
We talked
for a while under my mother’s vigilant eyes and when the baron left the party,
he said we would meet again.
And we
did, on five more occasions.
At one of
those parties, after we danced, he invited me for a walk through the Duke of
Belfort’s beautiful back garden, and I told him I had to ask for my mother’s
permission, which was granted immediately. We walked to the unlit part of the
garden, where pointing to a wooden bench, the baron asked me if I wanted to sit
with him.
I smiled
and agreed.
He told me
about his late wife, who had died in labor, leaving him heirless; about his
widow mother, the dowager baroness, who still lives with him—or rather, with us,
since yesterday; about his properties in London and in Warwickshire, and his
business interests. He is an intelligent and captivating man, and although it
might sound boring, it wasn’t.
I asked a
few polite questions and also answered politely when he inquired about my childhood,
studies, friends, and my brief Parisian life.
When he
bent his blond head and put his arm around my waist, pulling me against his
chest, I let him kiss me.
When he
pressed his tongue on my sealed lips, I opened for him.
“Soft as
petals,” he whispered on my mouth before thrusting his tongue inside again and
brushing it against mine.
And then
his hand was fondling my breast, tugging at a nipple, and I squirmed on the
bench. “Non, monsieur—”
“Joseph,”
he corrected me, not stopping his administrations to my nipple. His tongue was
now sliding down my neck and my thoughts became jumbled.
When his
other hand wandered under my skirt and caressed my leg, I tried again to stop
him, gripping his wrist. “Non, non. Joseph.”
“Yes,
sweetheart?” He raised his head for a minute, but his hands didn’t move,
neither from my breast, nor from my thigh. Well, his hands didn’t move, but his
fingers were very active, massaging my breast and my inner thigh.
“Oh,” I
moaned from the good, warm feeling that was spreading over my body.
“That’s
it, sweetheart,” he whispered. Without taking his eyes from mine, he put his
hand inside my drawers and began to rub my hair down there.
Without
thinking, my legs opened and I leaned back.
His fingers
searched and found my opening, and he slowly inserted just a tip inside,
receding when I flinched.
“Oh,” I
gasped, blinking at him. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t
answer and began to rub another spot.
It felt
good—very good, and I relaxed again.
“You’re so
beautiful, Chloé.”
Soon he
was rubbing me quickly and I was panting; he was breathing hard and I was
writhing, until I screamed, “Jo-seph!”
I started
when I heard myself brokenly crying out in pleasure, and pushing him away, I
fled back to the party, going directly to the bathroom.
In the
mirror my reflection showed reddened lips and a flushed face. I could see my
puckered nipples peaking through the thin gauze-and-lace of my most beautiful
evening dress. When I touched my drawers, they were wet.
I was
confused, but—oh!—haven’t I liked it.
No comments:
Post a Comment