The Devil in My Soul

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My name is Charles Porterhouse. I was born in Rochester, Kent, in 1834 and I am now 28 years of age. I am five feet eleven inches tall, with sandy curled hair, stocky but not fat, and generally considered moderately attractive to the fairer sex. I was a lawyer, a junior partner in the prestigious practice of Noble, Shields the trip was a short one from London, and I was sure that my two relatives would enjoy each other’s company. Three days after her departure I received a letter from Maddy in which she spoke happily of a ball she and my aunt had attended. Madeleine, a pretty, sweet soul, had not lacked for handsome young dance partners, and was clearly enjoying Bedford society.

After another two days I received a further letter. Maddy had attended a dinner party, and wrote enthusiastically about a ‘fascinating couple’ she had met, the Fennimores. It seemed they were also visitors to the town, and my sister wrote at considerable length of the charm and physical handsomeness of the husband and the engaging nature of the wife. Although I was happy that she found her absence a pleasant one, I felt Madeleine’s apparent intimacy with this couple on such brief acquaintance to be a little unseemly, and I looked forward with keen anticipation to her return home in two days’ time.

It was with concern, therefore, that I returned from my office that day to find no trace of my sister. Our housekeeper, Mrs Chalmers, had received no word from her. I told myself that Maddy had simply decided to extend her stay, but I spent a sleepless night and the following day, on my way to my employment, I sent a telegram to our aunt requesting that she, or preferably Maddy, reassure me. I received my answer in mid-afternoon, but it was not a happy one. Our aunt replied that Madeleine had left her home as arranged, with the stated intention of returning to my house; indeed, her new friend Mr Fennimore had met my sister at the door to accompany her to the railway station.

Now deeply concerned I left my office and walked to Scotland Yard to request the police to make enquiries as to whether any young lady matching Maddy’s description — five feet seven inches tall with honey blonde hair and a pale complexion, wearing a red velvet travelling suit and matching silk hat — had been reported as having been involved in an accident, or worse. Inspector Thomas Begbie, who was a confidante of my employer Mr Winfield, promised that he would set such enquiries in place. I went home and fretted, and late in the evening, just as I was preparing to retire for the evening, a uniformed sergeant rapped on my door. Our maid, Elsie, showed him in, and he informed me in rather gruff terms that no such lady was known to have been involved in any incident in either Bedford or London, or admitted to any major hospital. The Bedford constabulary had learnt that the Fennimores had left the town. To my surprise and annoyance the officer rejected my plea that they be traced, opining that Mr Fennimore was clearly a gentleman and, anyway, it was too early to treat my sister as a missing person.

By the following morning I was frantic with worry, and as soon as I reached my office I sent a boy to fetch Beswick, a private investigator the firm had used several times. Giving him my aunt’s address and a pencil drawing of Madeleine previoiusly made by a friend I despatched him to Bedford. I would of course have liked to go myself, but I was scheduled to meet on a business matter with Viscount Hanbury, whose family were among our most esteemed clients. A weary and dusty Beswick returned before the end of the day and confirmed the Fennimores departure. They had stayed at the White Swan Hotel in Bedford, and a sharp-eyed young porter had recalled seeing ‘a pretty young blonde lady’ departing with them to the station. The detective’s inquiries had revealed that they lived near the town of Wetherby in distant Yorkshire. Without hesitation I gave the man funds and my authority to travel there to ask the Fennimores about Maddy’s whereabouts.

I had a nervous two-day wait before I saw Beswick again. He told me he had visited the couple’s home, Brigdale Hall, and they had confirmed that Maddy was their guest. She had refused to see the detective, but had given him a letter to pass to me:

‘Charles, I have decided to spend some time in the company of my friends Richard and Matilda. I trust you will respect my decision. I am very happy here and ask you to be happy for me. Please arrange to send my belongings. I do not know when we will next meet, but be assured that we shall.


While the handwriting was clearly that of my sister, the tone was quite unfamiliar to me. Never before had she addressed me with such coldness; the note was in stark contrast to her recent letters, which all began ‘Dearest Charlie’, continued ‘sweet brother’ and ended ”with all my love, Maddy’. I absentmindedly dismissed Beswick and re-read the brief missive over and over. Far from feeling reassured I lay tossing and turning in my bed, becoming increasingly illegal bahis perturbed. By morning I had reached a decision. I had a rather difficult meeting with the senior partner in the firm, Mr Shields, who with ill humour agreed that I may absent myself for up to a week; then I set out for Wetherby. I had made a promise to our parents to take care of my sister, and if she had truly made her own decision to join the Fennimores household she could tell me so to my face, whereupon I would decide where my responsibilities lay.

I had never undertaken such a long journey, some 200 miles, and I passed through dramatically contrasting scenery, from pretty rural villages surrounded by gay meadows to grim industrial towns, black with dirt and peopled by stoop-shouldered grimy workers. By the time I reached Leeds night had fallen and I was exhausted and felt filthy. I took a room at the Grand Hotel close to the station, in order that I may set out fresh for Wetherby the following morning.

The following day was a Saturday and, there being no coaches scheduled to my destination until the late afternoon, I hired a trap and driver to take me the 15 miles or so to Brigdale Hall. It being nearly noon, I took a lunch of bread, cheese and ale at an inn in the neighbouring village and casually asked the landlord what he knew of the Fennimores. His initial hospitable demeanour disappeared and, no longer meeting my eyes, he muttered that the couple largely kept themselves to themselves and local folk did the same. Thereafter I felt an air of hostility and suspicion from the other patrons of the tavern and ate my lunch in uncomfortable silence, aware of frequent covert glances in my direction.

The day was a foreboding one, with dark clouds scudding along on a stiff breeze, and matched my mood as I trudged the half-mile to my destination. I was met by a set of tall wrought iron gates set into a high wall and firmly closed. A small side gate unlatched, however, and I walked up a long gravel drive towards an impressive red brick and timber house which I judged to be of Tudor vintage. I rang the doorbell and, perhaps 20 seconds later, a maid answered. She looked surprised when I announced myself but admitted me to the entrance hall and asked me to wait.

After fully two minutes the master of the house appeared. He was physically impressive, several inches taller than I and slim but athletic in build. I judged him to be somewhere in his 40s. By far his most striking feature was his face, below jet black hair with a streak of grey above either temple. He had a long unlined face with thick arched eyebrows, deep-set black eyes which glittered with intelligence, a strong nose, wide smiling mouth and firm chin. It was a countenance one would not easily forget, and in my mood of apprehension I might have considered it almost demonic.

I had intended to assert myself from the off, but there was an aura about the man which immediately set me ill at ease, and I found myself mumbling that I had come to see my sister. My host’s smile broadened and, as he shook my hand in a powerful grip, responded in a rich public school baritone, “Of course Mr Porterhouse, how very pleasant to meet you, dear Maddy has spoken of you in the fondest of terms. Please, you must call me Richard, and if you will permit I will call you Charles.” Taking me by the arm he led me into a small, comfortable sitting room and sat me on a sofa, explaining that my sister would join us momentarily. I perched on the edge of my seat nervously while Richard Fennimore made light conversation about nothing in particular.

After a few minutes the door opened and I rose as two ladies walked in. The first, Fennimore introduced to me as “my beloved Matilda”. From Maddy’s reference to them in her letter as a couple I had assumed the Fennimore’s to be husband and wife, but on seeing Matilda I felt sure they must be siblings. Though a good half-foot shorter than Richard, her facial features were identical: the same arched brows, the same eyes, her mouth set in an almost wolfish smile. Her hair, pulled into a loose bun atop her head, had largely turned to silver and I guessed her to be older than Richard, perhaps 50 years.

The second lady who had entered was my sister, but it was not the Maddy I knew. She wore a dress of black silk which clung immodestly to her slim figure, the neckline plunged to reveal an expanse of white chest in a way I would never have expected of Maddy. Her hair, usually worn in a neat bun, hung wild and loose around her shoulders. In her eyes was a look which, on the few occasions I had seen it in others, spoke of carnal lust. All in all she projected an air of eroticism, and I could not escape an uncomfortable sensation that my sweet, innocent Madeleine had been spirited away to be replaced by some alien incubus. When we were all seated, Matilda at the other end of my sofa, Maddy in a chair facing me, I asked the Fennimores if I could speak to my sister alone. To my astonishment she looked alarmed and blurted, “No, really Charles, illegal bahis siteleri I don’t want Richard and Tilly to leave. Anything we have to say to each other can be said in front of my friends.”

Matilda, however, stood, placed a calming hand on Maddy’s and, smiling, said gently, “No dear, your brother is quite right, we should allow you some privacy. Come Richard.” As they departed a maid entered carrying a tray bearing a silver tea service which, with a curtsey, she placed on a low table before leaving. I could not help noticing that the tray bore only two cups, almost as if the Fennimores had staged the last few minutes for my benefit. I waited until Maddy had poured the tea then asked her to account for her recent behaviour. She sighed heavily then, as if speaking to an rather stupid child, replied, “It really is very simple Charles. I met Richard and Tilly in Bedford, we became friends and they invited me to visit them here at Brigdale.”

I stood in exasperation. “Really Madeleine, there’s nothing simple about it. With less than a week’s acquaintance you send me the briefest of missives instructing me to forward your belongings, as if you intend to make your life here. I simply do not understand it. Why would you suddenly abandon your life in London, your friends, the theatre, the shops, to settle in this bleak, windswept place with people you barely know?”

Maddy stood angrily as well and glared at me. I tried to place my hands calmingly on her shoulders, but she turned away and stalked across to stare out of a set of French windows, now spattered with raindrops. Her back to me, she snapped, “I don’t even know what you’re doing here, I asked you to respect my decision.” I was shocked. My sister had always been so affectionate towards me, with never a cross word. My heart feeling leaden, I said softly, “Maddy, darling, if I have in some way hurt or offended you, please tell me what it is I have done, so that I may seek your forgiveness.”

She was silent for fully ten achingly long seconds, then turned and walked slowly towards me. Her cheeks glinted with the tracks of tears, and I saw a little of the old Madeleine I knew as she said, “Oh Charlie, dearest, you haven’t done anything. I am sorry I have upset you so.” She drew me down to sit on the sofa beside her, and took both of my hands in hers. “I wish I could make you understand Charlie, but I don’t fully understand it myself. All I know is that at this time, in this place, I feel a strange compulsion to be near to Robert and Tilly.” As if reading my thoughts, she added, “I am not in love with Robert, do not think that, but I am very fond of both of them.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “Then come back with me, allow me to help you break this compulsion which even you do not understand.” Her head was shaking before I finished speaking. “I cannot and I will not. I do not say that I will never return to London, and to you Charlie. But I know deep within that, for now, I must be here. Please do not try to change my mind, brother, it is made up.”

I stood stiffly and, after kissing Maddy on the cheek, walked to the door. As I opened it I turned and said, “You know, of course, dear, that if ever you change your mind there will always be a place for you in my home — our home.”

I closed the door behind me and rang for a maid to fetch my coat. Matilda Fennimore emerged from a side door and I told her of Madeleine’s decision. She rested a consoling hand on my arm and said, “I am sorry you came all this way for nothing Charles. You will of course stay the night?” I started to decline her offer, but she would not hear of it. “Really, the weather is quite foul now and, even if you return to Leeds, tomorrow is Sunday, and you will not find a train departing for London all day. I can send someone to get your things from your hotel.” It was with considerable reluctance that I agreed, and allowed a maid to show me to a guest room. I felt sick at heart, and all I wished to do was put Brigdale Hall and the Fennimores as far behind me as possible. But at least, I told myself, I would have the opportunity to see my sweet Maddy a little more before I abandoned her to her new mentors.

My luggage arrived in time for me to dress for dinner, and I could not deny that both the meal and the company were quite pleasant. Madeleine was quiet, and rarely met my eyes, but the Fennimores proved to be quite engaging. Nevertheless, I excused myself as soon after dinner as courtesy permitted and retired to my bed. I was awoken during the night by a light shining into my eyes. Blearily I traced its source and found that it was a hole in the wall, at chest height, a little over an inch wide. Strangely, it appeared to have been made intentionally. Muttering curses to myself I was about to use a wash cloth to block the hole when a strange sound reached me through it. It had sounded almost like a cry of fear, and was a woman’s voice. Vexed and curious, I applied my eyes to the hole — and stared in total disbelief at the tableau before canlı bahis siteleri me.

Yards from me, Richard Fennimore and my sister knelt on a carpet. Both were quite naked, Maddy on all fours, her knees wide apart, Fennimore behind her, his hips pumping back and forth as he thrust his cock into her, his hands kneading her buttocks. At Maddy’s head Matilda lay on her back, her knees raised. My sister’s face was obscured from me, buried as it was between Matilda’s thighs. The older woman clutched Maddy’s hair in her fist and gasped obscene encouragement as Maddy licked at her cunt.

I was about to roar in fury and storm into the room to defend what little may be left of my sister’s honour, but it appeared that at that moment Richard shot his load into her, and she raised her head and cried, “Oh God Richard, yes, spunk me!” The look of ecstasy on her face quite left me weak and, feeling frozen and unable to move, I continued to watch, initially in horror then, to my own shock, with mounting arousal as, giggling, Maddy re-arranged them and proceeded to suck Richard’s sticky member into her mouth while Matilda began to lap at her, apparently licking her own brother’s jism from my sister’s pussy. At one point Matilda looked directly at my spy hole, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew I was watching them debauch Maddy. It seemed to go on for hours before, exhausted, they all three slumped onto the bed in the room and extinguished the light. I returned to my own bed and lay staring haunted into the darkness, shocked to the core at what I had seen, horrified at my own reaction, and trying to understand why I had not made some move to stop what was happening.

The following morning I rose early, resolved to have it out with the Fennimores and determined that I must get Madeleine away from that house of iniquity, as she had clearly been robbed of all sensibility. There was no sign of any of them, and I asked a maid if they had gone to church. She gave a strange little laugh and said, “Oh no sir, the master and mistress are still asleep. Can I get you some breakfast sir?” I breakfasted lightly then, frustrated, stomped down to the village church. It quickly became clear that my inquiries about my hosts in the inn the day before had been widely reported, as the parishioners stayed well away from me and stared at me throughout the service. The clergyman gave a firebrand sermon about the Seven Deadly Sins, and when he spoke of lust I realised that he, too, was glowering in my direction.

As the weather was quite fine, on the way back to Brigdale Hall I walked up a hill to take in a magnificent view of the surrounding valleys. I arrived at the hall shortly after noon but found still nobody had emerged from their beds. I was served a cold lunch, then inspected the garden. After a further hour, I snapped at the poor maid that this lack of hospitality was intolerable, and that I wished my sister to present herself to me in the sitting room immediately. I sat grumpily on the sofa and waited.

After a few minutes the door opened, but it was Matilda, not Maddy, who entered. Giving me an odd smile, she said, “I know you wanted to see Maddy, but she asked me to speak to you. Did you enjoy our little entertainment last night?” I cursed silently — so they had known I was watching! Speaking with quiet fury, I replied, “My sister was a sweet, innocent girl, and what you and your…Robert have done to her is evil. I will not allow her to stay in this house a day longer. I demand that you bring her to me, whereupon I shall insist that she accompany me back to London.”

Matilda seemed not a jot concerned at my words, and gave a small chuckle as, slowly, she walked towards me. “Oh, believe me Charles, we didn’t have to do much to dear sweet Maddy. She is a quick learner, and she has become a most enthusiastic and inventive lover. But what of you Charles? Can you honestly tell me that when you watched last night, without rushing in to stop us, you did not feel aroused? Perhaps wish you were there fucking me as Robert fucked your sister?” As she spoke she slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders. I watched in open-mouthed astonishment as it slid to the floor — beneath it she was naked!

I felt shocked to my core but her words, and perhaps even more so her almost hypnotic tone of voice, had had the most curious effect on me. I felt incapable of speech or movement, and could only sit and stare her nudity. I was not of course a complete novice in sexual terms, but Matilda’s body was very different to those of the Strand barmaids and waitresses who had let me have them in a back alley or in their lodgings for a guinea a time. Her well nourished doughy white breasts were the size of watermelons, tipped with nipples the size and colour of ripe strawberries. Beneath her navel a slight roll of fat on her gut overshadowed a tight wad of curled grey hair extending onto her chubby dimpled thighs. She took a step forward until she stood close, her magnificent bosoms looming over me, her lower thatch inches from my nose. In a soft, teasing voice she murmured, “Do you find me attractive Charlie? You like my tits, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Why don’t you take one of them into your mouth, and chew on my big, soft dug? Hmm?”

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