A Bordello in New Orleans, Chapter 1

  • Posted on June 4, 2022 at 3:01 pm

One of the best scores we made at Juicy Secrets over the last year is access to the beautiful stories of Kinkychic (along with the work of her equally talented sister Kinkys_sis). Here’s a brand new Kinkychic story, one we got first crack at. Needless to say, we’re thrilled no end to present it to you now. Do enjoy.  — JetBoy

 

By Kinkychic

Prologue

Chantelle looked across the city from her vantage point high above the street. She was leaning on the balcony of El Palacio, where she liked to enjoy her morning coffee, reflecting on her life and her future. Up here, there were few of the smells that pervaded the neighbourhood below, and at any rate, the air around her home was nowhere near as foul as it was nearer the suburbs.

New Orleans was a dirty, smelly, muddy, and often fever-ridden place. Yet it seemed that everyone wanted to live there. Chantelle, who put it about that she was French, although no one really knew for sure, was no exception. She ran a successful business—she was the “madame” of a bordello. By most people’s standards, she was quite rich. She enjoyed a good life and had no inclination to leave.

Today, however, she was thinking more about how the city she loved was changing and the constant flow of rumours of what the British, the Spanish, the French – and now the Americans – might do next. Times were uncertain, but she knew she’d been lucky so far; nothing seemed to impede the smooth operation of the Palacio.

France was at war with Britain. The Spanish were on the verge of joining the French. The northern American states, recently independent, were eager for more territory to add to the Union, especially in the South. The American army wanted to use force, but President Washington said he was weary of conflict and wanted only a peaceful settlement.

The city and its surroundings attracted four types of Americans. First came the stream of settlers in the more northerly areas, who had been sold land – illegally, some would argue – only to find Indians in residence when they arrived.

Then there were those working toward some political agenda, aiming to rid the place of the Spanish and bring the region into the American fold. Others were there to make money by whatever means possible – pirates, privateers, gamblers and fraudsters. A few were hard-bitten riverboat men working the delta. Bill Tucker was one such man. A riverboat captain, he had worked up and down the Mississippi most of his life. Some said he had been a pirate and a thief, but never to his face. That would have been very foolish.

The Spanish maintained a large fort overlooking the harbour. It was well designed and boasted huge guns to protect their interests, and the garrison of soldiers and sailors from the king’s small naval force was the main source of income for most of the smaller traders in the city.

Whorehouses outnumbered any other type of business. They ranged from dirty flea pits in the suburbs to posh establishments in the few smarter areas. These latter catered to officers, gentlemen, and a very few rich people who were neither.

These better-class bordellos were usually owned by a senior military man or politico who was seldom actually seen on the premises, and who would engage a madame to front his business. Chantelle prided herself that the Palacio was quite probably both the best and most popular among the city’s more discerning residents.

By far the busiest professionals were the prostitutes, whether the beautiful whores found in the best places, or the scrawny, toothless hags who worked the filthy streets.

This was New Orleans in the late eighteenth century, a lowly deckhand’s paradise or an officer’s nightmare. It was not a place to be penniless – especially a penniless woman.

 

Chapter One

My father was killed when I was seven. His platoon had been ambushed by persons unknown somewhere up the Mississippi. He had been a Corporal in the Spanish army escorting a small naval convoy that was transporting gold coin into the interior for the Governor. This gold was a payment to some American General. I think his name was Wilkinson. Some years later I learned that he had been a double agent, working for both the Americans and the Spanish. He never received his gold. Nor was any trace of it ever discovered.

I loved my father, the kindest man I ever knew, and I still missed him. The sound of his voice – “Frances, viene la cena está lista” – when he called me for dinner, or when he played his guitar and sang us a love song. He had never earned a great deal. Army pay was steady, but not enough for him to save, and he had always been too honest to involve himself in any of the shady rackets that were rife in the dockyard.

My mother did receive a token bereavement payment from the army, but it lasted us only so long. The sisters of the convent helped us for a while, and then they, too, ran out of money. There was a terrible shortage of actual coin, the Governor having lost 200,000 guineas in his ill-advised venture with Wilkinson.

My mother tried everything she could to find work, but to no avail. For a time, it seemed, either we would have to live on the streets, or Mother would be forced to accept some drunken soldier as her husband. Good men were hard to find. It was a common enough situation, and our own was becoming more desperate every day. We were but two of the thousands of penniless females scratching for a living in New Orleans.

I remember the day Mother came home with so much fresh food I could not believe it, but I, being half-starved, did not question how she had acquired it. All I cared about was filling my empty belly. I think I was eight at the time.

She was fourteen years of age when I was born, and so still quite young. She was also a quadroon. One of her grandmothers had been a slave in the British West Indies – although we never knew which of the islands exactly – and her grandfather was the enslaver. Like many women of mixed blood, she was beautiful, with European features but slightly darker-coloured skin. As an octoroon, I am even more fair-complected than she.

Mother worked in the evenings. She would not tell me where. She would say only, “It’s better you don’t know, but you needn’t worry. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”

Over time, I saw her fortunes increase until eventually, my curiosity got the better of me. I could not understand what situation could pay so much. I tried to ask her about it on several occasions. At first, she told me not to fret, but as I got older, I did fret. I began to worry what she might be doing.

Finally, I asked her outright. “Mother, I want to know what you do,” I said. “It worries me, not knowing. I can’t believe the money you bring home can be earned from any honest work, and it frightens me.”

She seldom grew cross with me, but now she did. “How dare you question me like this!” she said. “Just be grateful that I provide. What I do is my business, and no concern of yours.” She stopped. I think her own words had shocked her. They certainly shocked me.

I took a step back, hurt and stung and fighting back tears. “I only worry for you, Mother,” I mumbled.

She saw my distress, and reached out to me. “I know you do, Frances. I’m sorry for my harsh words. Now let’s not mention it again.”

***

I followed at a safe distance so that she never saw me. Mother carried her good shoes in her bag, as they would have been ruined in the filth she was forced to walk through to reach the better-kept streets. Several times I had to be quick to escape the grasping hands of some inebriate who clearly thought I was fair game – a young and not wholly white girl out on the streets at this time of evening.

I had always felt frightened of Indians, although I had no real cause to be. My fear stemmed only from stories I had heard. Nevertheless, I would try to avoid contact with any I encountered, and so it was now. Most stood about the docks, but some loitered in small groups that I did not much like the look of, and I steered well clear of them.

At one point, I was caught up by a more persistent soldier who took hold of my arm. He even offered me more money than I’d ever seen if I went into the alleyway with him. The smell of his breath from his rotten teeth and whatever he had been drinking invaded my senses. He cursed me for a stuck-up negra bitch as I twisted away from him. I shouted at him that he was a disgrace to the Spanish uniform he wore. Could he not see that I was a respectable girl, and not one of his whores?

He just laughed at me, pressing a hand between his legs. “I’ll teach you respectable, little miss. Your little hands would fit right nice around this.” But by then, I was running to catch up to my mother.

She had disappeared. I had no idea where she’d gone. How could she have vanished so quickly? I looked about, puzzled. I was standing outside the doors of a quite notorious, but high-toned bordello. It slowly dawned upon me that it was the only place she could have gone.

I knew little about these places, although I did know what they were for. Perhaps Mother worked as a hatcheck, or waitress, or something similar. It did not once cross my mind that she could be one of the girls who catered to the unspeakable needs of men. I did suspect, though, that anyone who worked in such a posh establishment, in whatever capacity, would be well paid.

I could not bring myself to enter, and since there was nothing else I could discern by standing in the street, I returned home – though more slowly and carefully than I had come. For I loved it here, amid the city’s few clean streets. One or two of the lanes boasted gas lights, as did the houses and businesses along them. I stopped and admired the steady blue flames. How did they work? I had no answer. And only here were the carriageways paved. One could walk without being covered in mud or dust. I skipped happily along the road, something I could never do in my own quarter.

As I approached my home, I grew more and more despondent – the stink, the grit, the dirty inhabitants. The drunks who lay about, most likely considering whom they could rob to pay for their next bottle. It was high summer, and the oppressive heat trapped and amplified the stench. The only relief was the absence of mud, as we were far enough away from the swamps, and the sun had dried the ground.

I hated this place, but at least we had a roof over our heads. Our house was clean and tidy inside, and we had plenty of food. But still, I swore that somehow, someday, I would leave it behind me.

***

Time moved on. For Mother and me, nothing changed much, although I was now taking lessons in English, Spanish, and arithmetic at the convent. I discovered I was a quick and diligent learner, and I enjoyed the time spent in my studies.

It was a Sunday afternoon when the lady called. For a moment I was tongue-tied at the sight of her. Her clothing, so clearly expensive, was quite beautiful, almost as beautiful as she was. What on earth could such a lady want here? She gave a faint smile, though my silence must have struck her as rude.

She wanted to see Mother on some matter of business, she said. Recovering my wits, I invited her inside, out of the stifling summer heat. The aroma of her perfume as she passed me was like nothing I had ever encountered. Mother often wore a pleasant scent, but this was altogether different. I could not begin to imagine how much it must have cost.

I explained that Mother was not at home and I could not be certain when she would return. The lady seemed quite put out by this, though her friendly demeanour remained unclouded. I decided she was a most good-natured lady, and not at all haughty in any way.

Then I apologised for my lack of manners and asked whether she would care for some lemonade. I almost laughed at the way she grimaced, so I quickly added, “Or perhaps some wine?”

Now she smiled again. I was instantly struck by the beauty of the smile, which seemed to light up her face. I fetched her a glass, and she took a sip, then smiled again. “Very nice. Are you not having any?”

I gave a nervous laugh. “I am permitted only a watered portion with dinner,” I told her. “I’m not allowed to drink any during the daytime.”

She was now taking a closer look at me. I felt shy under her gaze, but I held myself up straighter, trying to look more mature than my eleven years.

“Not allowed? But you must be twelve or more, certainly old enough to have a drink of wine, I should have thought.”

I did not know what to answer, and she spoke again. “I’m sorry, it is not my place to be saying that, not here.” But she continued to look me over. “You really are a very pretty girl – a younger version of your mother, and lighter, though she is certainly pretty. She’s one of my most popular girls, you know.”

She must have seen the puzzled look on my face. “Oh dear. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I think I ought to go before I get myself in trouble with your mother.”

“Please don’t rush,” I said. “You haven’t finished your wine, and I like talking to you. You’re from the Palacio, aren’t you, and that’s where Mother works. You said she works for you, so you must be the owner then?” My forwardness shocked me, and I blushed furiously, but somehow she had that effect on me, and she did not seem to mind.

She seemed to hesitate, but then said. “Goodness no, I’m not the owner. I am the madame. So you know your mother works there?”

“Yes, well, in a way. What I mean is, I know she goes there, but I don’t know what she does. You say she’s one of your most popular girls, so I guess I know now.”

She was studying me again. “You don’t seem very shocked to find out.”

I realised with some surprise that, indeed, I was not, even though I thought perhaps I should have been. I suppose I’d grown used to seeing so much of life in New Orleans. Several of the girls at the convent said their mothers worked as whores.

She broke into my thoughts. “So tell me, how old are you?” Her eyebrows arched at my answer. “Eleven? I would never have believed you were quite that young. You’re a beautiful young lady. Here, come a little closer, will you? Let me see you.”

She put a hand to my breast, and now I was shocked. I felt I should have moved away, but for a reason I could not fathom, I stood still as she felt the modest swelling beneath my shift.

“Mm, just enough to be enticing,” she said. “Yes I like that.”

It was only recently that I had discovered how my nipples hardened when I touched them. My face grew hot, and I knew I was blushing as I saw them now, showing through my shift. So big, so solid.

A smile came to her face as she watched me. Her eyes never left mine as she pinched a nipple between her fingers. “You appear to quite like that, and neither do you seem to mind my touching you.”

I had no idea what to answer. It was certainly pleasurable, but a lady touching me? Had it been a man, I would have understood, but not a lady. Why, I wondered? Whether I was too taken aback to object, or I was sincerely enjoying it, I could not have said, but in any case, I stood and let her play.

Now she had both hands on my chest, rubbing and squeezing and watching my face for any sign of pleasure. It was not long before she saw what she was after, for I could not disguise it, and she said quietly, “Come nearer, little one,”

I inched toward her until my legs touched her knees, and still I did not object as her fondling continued. It was then that I realised that I did not want her to stop. The feelings she was causing were of a strange and overpowering kind. My mouth had gone dry. I licked my lips, and that made her smile more, but it was a different sort of smile. There was a look there I had not seen before. I also noticed that she had started to breathe more audibly. Her bosom rose, and there was plenty of it showing.

She saw me glancing down at her. “Do you want to touch mine?” she asked. “You may, you know. You needn’t be shy.”

My first thought was, “Why would I want to do that?” But I watched absently as my small hand reached for her, almost of its own volition. Tremblingly, I skimmed the top of her ample breasts. So soft, so silky. I felt a strange thrill as my fingertips moved timidly along her décolletage.

She seemed to shrug her shoulders, and then the dress was slipping down her arms. The whole of her breasts came into view, her nipples nesting in two brown circles. She gave a kind of purr as my fingers closed on them. I watched in fascination as they grew beneath my touch.

I had not noticed her hand extending toward my throat, but now she was undoing my buttons, one by one. Once more, I thought I should pull away, but I could not take my fingers from her beautiful breasts.

Still, I felt it my duty to protest in some way. “M… Madame, this is not … proper,” I managed to stammer, but she slid her hand inside my shift and took hold of one small breast. I gave an involuntary shiver as she massaged me. It felt so very wonderful. My breathing had become ragged, and I was quite sure the pounding I heard was my own heart.

She answered quietly, yet breathlessly. “Oh yes, it is entirely proper, little one.”

I also had not noticed when her knee first pressed between my legs, but I certainly did when it came up against the front of my undergarments. A sudden panic seized me. This was altogether beyond my understanding. My mind was in turmoil. It wasn’t right. I had to stop it.. “M… Madame, sh-should you be d-doing that?” I asked.

Yet the intense tingle between my legs excited me. Especially when I realised that I had pushed myself forward to meet the solid curvature of her knee. Her free hand had gone behind me and gripped my backside, pulling me to her.

I heard her chuckle. “Yes, my sweet, I do believe I should. Just let yourself relax and enjoy what you feel.” My eyes closed, I felt I might swoon. My God, the pleasure!

I felt my shift falling down my arms. Then I opened my eyes wide in shock. Her hand had left my breast, only to be replaced by her lips. She was kissing the bare flesh around the nipple. I could only watch her as she explored. Then she suddenly took the nipple into her mouth and sucked. I let out a whimper, at which she glanced up at my face. She gave me a knowing look, then a smile.

She pulled down my shift, and I lowered my arms, letting it fall to my ankles. Aware that a stranger was sitting in front of me as I stood there almost naked, I should have felt ashamed, or embarrassed. But instead, I felt only excitement. I had no idea why, but I was relishing my predicament.

Her knee dropped away but was quickly replaced by her hand, which she pressed between my legs, cupping me for a moment in front. Then her hand began to move, backwards and forwards, against my pee place.

My legs shook as I pressed myself into her touch. She continued thus for several minutes, until I felt her free hand behind me tugging at the tops of my drawers, pulling them down.

I made no attempt to stop her. All I knew was I craved more of her touch. Something was growing inside me, something I had never experienced, but that I did not wish to stop.

My drawers fell, joining my shift, and the madame sat back and looked at me. I watched her face as her eyes roved over my naked form. Her look mirrored the way I felt – wanting, needing, but in her case, the need was for me.

She reached for me again, drawing a finger along my tender slit, pressing more firmly as she ascended. I almost cried out at the sudden sensation that shot through me. I had occasionally touched that same place. I knew it was special, but never like this.

Her fingers concentrated on that one place, rubbing, caressing, and sometimes pulling, as my body grew ever more tense. I wondered at what I was feeling. This, I thought, was surely what heaven must be like.

My legs went weak, and then they trembled. I could barely keep myself from falling. I balanced myself on Madame’s shoulders and held on. And then it happened. There was a moment of sudden terror, barely the length of a breath, and then a wave of joy at the glorious feelings that swept through me. I jerked my hips furiously against her hand as my body strived for release.

I fell against her as the spasms shook me. With one hand she held me to her, while the other remained engaged between my legs.

Slowly, my breathing calmed, and I clung to her, lifting my face to hers, and her lips came toward me. Somehow, her kiss, though gentle and loving, shocked me more than the touch of her hand between my legs. My body went rigid at the feel of her lips on mine. Not only was it the first time that I’d ever been kissed, but I was being kissed by a woman. I knew, vaguely, this was wrong, and somehow unnatural, but then my lips responded to hers, pressing forward, moving in clumsy circles, until I reached out and pulled her hard to me.

I had no conception of how to kiss, and I did not think about it. It merely happened. I could feel her passion in the feverish way she devoured my mouth. I felt, more than heard, the gasp when my hand went back to her breast.

I felt her struggle under me and heard the rustle of her skirts. Drawing back, I saw that she was pulling them up to her waist. I got up from her lap and immediately, somehow, I knew what she wanted. She had given me so much pleasure, and I was witnessing her own arousal. She needed release, just as I had.

I felt awkward and shy, but I realised that I was more than a mere child to her. I saw her desperation, and a feeling of equality – even of dominance – possessed me. She so obviously wanted me to love her just as she had loved me, that any notion that it was wrong, or even strange, was now gone. I wanted to show this beautiful woman I was capable of giving her pleasure.

I knelt before her and pushed up her skirts. The beauty of her undergarments gave me pause. Her stockings were held up by some sort of contraption, the likes of which I had never seen. Her soft silk drawers were colourful and gorgeous.

She stopped moving and looked at me with a beseeching expression, waiting without uttering a sound.

I was dreadfully nervous as I moved between her legs, but still, I reached out and touched the upper part of her thighs. The skin was soft and warm beneath my fingers. She raised herself from the sofa, and I realised what she wanted me to do. With a trembling hand, I unfastened the small catches that held her stockings to the lacy band at her waist, then took hold of her most intimate garment and pulled it from under her.

It seemed a long time ago now, but I had once, upon spying my mother stepping into the bathtub, beheld her curly thatch. I expected to confront the same vision now, but there was none. Clear, soft skin was all I saw, with not a trace of hair. And where my slit was tight and small, she possessed the expansive wings of a butterfly that glistened in the light. I was frozen in place, marvelling at the display.

Even as I reached out my hand, her hips were rising to meet it. My fingers grazed her wet, slippery folds. Slowly, I eased them apart, stunned by the beauty within. Never could I have imagined how it would make me feel, how I would long to please this lady, to show her how clever I was.

Yet, I did not know what to do. I looked up at her, and she saw my dilemma. “You really are new to this, aren’t you, my little angel?” she said. “Well, don’t worry, just touch me and learn. Something tells me you will be quite heavenly.”

I was rapt with curiosity about the texture of those folds. I eased my fingers through her wetness, sliding deep within. Her insides gripped me, and she lay back, clutching her own breasts.

Her hips withdrew, and my fingers almost popped right out, but then she thrust back, and once more I was buried deep. She repeated the movement, and I realised what she was doing. I began to move my hand in counterpoint, until she no longer had to make the effort. And the look of pleasure on her face gave me every encouragement.

Then I remembered how I had felt when she had touched my special place. My other hand spread the top of her lips. At first, I could see nothing, but when I pushed aside a sort of hood, there it was – a little nob-like thing. My fingers grazed the tip, only the softest touch, but her reaction was strong and unmistakable.

She babbled in French, which I did not understand well, but the little I could follow, along with her violent jerking, told me that I had found the source of her pleasure. It flipped from side to side beneath my fingers, growing larger as I teased. To this day, if you asked me, I would have no idea what possessed me, but I felt the sudden urge to kiss her there.

No sooner had my lips touched her, than her hand came down and clutched my head, pulling me more tightly to her. The button was forced between my lips, and she trembled just as I had done. I went beyond mere kissing and sucked the pearl into my mouth.

I knew exactly when she had reached the same peak as I had. I moved my fingers more rapidly, sucked harder on the swollen pip. She began to shout, still in French, but I understood at least one word, and it meant “fuck”. She moaned as her whole body quivered.

Then she called for me to stop. “No more, my little lover. Come here and kiss me.”

Now I loved the pillowy feeling of her lips, of her arms around me, and the warmth of her sweating breasts against mine.

She eased me up. “I don’t even know your name. Tell me, angel, what do I call you?”

“Frances,” I told her.

She considered it for a moment. “That is a nice name, but I think to me you will be Francine. What do you think? Do you like that?”

I had no idea why I would want another name. I quite liked Frances, but there was something about Francine. Yes, I liked that. She could call me Francine if she wished.

She pushed me up gently. “I think that perhaps we should get decent again, don’t you?”

After she had straightened her clothing, she opened a small purse and took out a card. She passed it to me and said, “Promise you will come and see me, Francine. Perhaps sometime I will tell you more about your mother.” Then she pressed a gold guinea into my hand. “Just a little present for you, my sweet one.”

I stared at the coin. Never had I held so much money in my hand. I was wealthy. I looked at the card. It looked expensive, with “El Palacio” and, underneath, the name “Chantelle Du Maurier,” both in gold leaf.

I looked back at her and simply nodded. I had been struck dumb. I was in love with this woman, and my tongue no longer functioned.

“You may come any afternoon,” she said. “Just come to the side door and knock twice – only twice. A large man will answer. Don’t be frightened of him even though he looks quite menacing. Give him this card and he will let you in. Then he will check whether I am free. Will you do that?”

Dumbly, I nodded once again. I did not want her to leave, though I knew she must. I followed her to the door, where she turned to face me. “Would you tell your mother that I called, but say that it can wait until this evening. But you, my angel, are quite delectable. Just one quick kiss before I go.”

She stepped into the street, but turned and took hold of my hand. “Thank you for what you have given me today, Francine. I am honoured to be your first lover. Am I not? And you will come and see me, I hope?”

I only just managed a faint, “Yes, I shall.” Then I watched her walk away. A huge man awaited her in the street. He turned on his heel as she passed and followed at a respectful distance. I knew he must have been the man she had mentioned, and it was his duty to protect her.

She must be important indeed.

On to Chapter Two!

 

28 Comments on A Bordello in New Orleans, Chapter 1

  1. kinkychic says:

    I would like to express my huge gratitude for not only the editing, but also for what Jacqueline Jillinghoff has brought to my story. Subtle changes to my wording have made quite an astonishing improvement.

  2. Quinlan says:

    A delightful start!

    • kinkys_sis says:

      Of course I have read my sister’s story but not how it has been edited and finally presented – it’s quite … well fuck … delicious.

  3. BlueJean says:

    Very well written. An authentic piece of historical erotica.

    As hot, sticky and damp as The Bayou itself.

    I eagerly await chapter two.

    • kinkychic says:

      Praise from an established author is heartening.

      Jetboy has all of the chapters ready to go when space permits.

  4. Tim says:

    Not only highly arousing, but a real story, and so well written.
    Like BlueJean, I eagerly await the next chapter.
    Thanks kinkychic!

    • kinkychic says:

      I personally, dislike short pieces with no story that are no more than an excuse for a sex romp. Thank you for recognising what I hoped to achieve.

  5. Esisikaxi says:

    A beautiful story

    Also a shout out to the website for the lovely art coming with the story.
    If only I could hold and slowly undress a girl dressed like that.

  6. Erocritique says:

    .
    Tragic circumstances lead to a serendipitous erotic encounter between “Francine” and Chantelle. I usially really hate stories where women are forced into prostitution, but I have a sense that “Francine’s” mother fared better than most victims of the sex trade. There was really a lot to like about this chapter. Espescially the sex scene: Erotica at its finest. The one spot where I struggled to follow a bit, was the paragraph starting with “For I loved this city”. I’m wondering if something was omitted before that line??? Overall amazing beginning. Definitely looking forward to chapter two.

  7. Joe Dornish says:

    Wow, a magnificent start to a story that leaves me wanting more. Wonderfully written and entirely captivating, I felt like I was there in New Orleans. I eagerly await the next instalment.

  8. admatt says:

    Ditto Bluejean.

  9. kinkychic says:

    Historical pieces always present a challenge. Achieving that balance between authenticity and not getting bogged down in too much period detail can be difficult.

    The prologue as it is now, is at least half the size of what I originally wrote. Indeed, it was a whole chapter on its own. But I realised it was too heavy going for the audience I was aiming at.

    The comments of you all, and in particular, Joe Dornish – ‘I felt like I was there in New Orleans’, give me great satisfaction.

    PS. In my opinion, the story gets better as we get into it.

    • Joe Dornish says:

      I’m super envious that you can write historical fiction like this. I’ve got detailed plans for a novel based in England at the end of the 18th century. But I’ve never had the courage to start writing it as I’m so worried about getting the details of the period wrong.

      • kinkychic says:

        My advice is that you do a little period research and then you begin writing.

        As you go along things will crop up that you can research further.

        Finally, a good editor, like Jackie here is essential. They can question things that you perhaps hadn’t considered.

        Above all, don’t let it stop you writing.

        • JetBoy says:

          I agree with everything the author says here. When Purple Les wrote her first Tequila Kid story (if you haven’t read it, do so!) and handed it to me to edit, we put a LOT of effort into getting the historical details right. That was a big part of the fun, though.

          Don’t hesitate, Joe. Write the story you want to write. You’ll end up drawing on inner resources you didn’t even know you possessed.

          Oh, and this story is a great one, by the way. Kudos to Kinkychic for coming up with it… and to Jacqueline for adding that extra coat of polish.

          • Joe Dornish says:

            Kinkychic and Jetboy…Thanks for the encouragement. I think I’ll dig out all those notes I made and start looking into it again!

  10. Kinkyfreakn386 says:

    Awesome sexy thanks for sharing sweetie 💋

  11. Heming Ernestway says:

    The attention to historical detail is both subtle and well-executed, and I thank you for its inclusion. One such detail I invite you to debate is the use of “shift” as described in the story. It’s my understanding that chemise (per wiki diff.com) is a loose shirtlike undergarment, while shift is a type of women’s undergarment, a slip. Since our protagonist describes the garment in question slipping down her arms, should it not be called a chemise? Regardless, I look forward to more of her exploits,

    • kinkychic says:

      Was there really any difference between a shift and a chemise? Well, yes and no. No, because they both referred to the same lady’s undergarment. Yes, because when the word “shift” was used (up until the early 19th century), the garment was usually made of linen and was simpler in cut. As the word “chemise” became standard, variations in pattern and trimming were increasing and the chemise was more often made of cotton.

    • Jake says:

      Im sure you are VERY familiar with all the correct period garments. This is a fictional account “Karen”
      ‘Fruit of the loom” wouldn’t change anything substantive….would it?

  12. Jake says:

    This story has captured my interest for sure. The potential is pretty much endless.Im eager to see where it goes next.
    I have a niece who lives in New Orleans, and has since the 1990s, and she has had some lesbian encounters herself.
    Lots to say, but, This makes it somewhat personal for me. Hawt, Hawt, Hawt! 🔥

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