The Private Affairs Of Lady Jane Fielding by Viveka Portman Page B
Authors: Viveka Portman
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them in coitus? I hoped not, for although I find myself questioning my own apparently lax morals, I had no desire to witness the depraved acts of my brother-in-law.
My slippers crunched on the gravel and with every step I verily cringed with anxiety. I pushed the door open.
The instant I entered the orangery, a cloak of citrus scented humidity covered me. The orange trees lined the glass windows, and ripening vibrant fruit swelled on the branches.
I heard a male grunt, then a grotesque, unfamiliar and peculiarly wet sound. I wished to call out, but with difficulty refrained as another guttural grunt was followed by what I could only describe as wet retching.
What the devil was happening? Certainly these were not the sounds of a man in ordinary coitus with a woman. I felt the very hairs upon my neck stand erect. The curious and vulgar sounds repeated once more.
With considerably more anxiety now, I searched the lines of greenery; the gardener had placed some other exotic fruiting plants, some of which towered high above me, and offered the reprobate clever hiding.
As I turned and followed a path to the further side of the orangery, I spied them.
I have never seen a sight quite like it, and hope never to again.
Poor Mary Anne was on her knees before Arthur, whose breeches puddled around his ankles. His hands were tight around the simpleton’s neck, and his member embedded root deep in her mouth.
I could not stem my horror. It was a grotesque mimicry of the act I sometimes partook in with my husband. Similar but brutally different.
A cry of utter dismay and disgust crawled up my throat.
Mary Anne’s face was alarmingly red and it was clear she was suffering both acute choking and strangulation.
I started forward as Arthur thrust into Mary Anne’s widened mouth. Tears streamed down her furiously burning face, and the sounds she made were simply ghastly. Slick wetness oozed down her chin from her retching.
‘Stop, Arthur! You’re killing her!’ I cried as Mary Anne’s hands moved up weakly, trying to bat his strangulating grip from her throat.
He seemed not to hear, nor notice me. His concentration locked upon the unfortunate before him as he pumped into her with devilish force.
Why did she not attempt to bite him? Was she too simple to even consider it?
Again, Mary Anne attempted to release herself.
For a very brief time I was torn — should I run and seek help? But Mary Anne may well be dead from choking by then.
No, I must intervene.
‘Arthur,’ I yelled, ‘stop it at once.’
He turned, his eyes heavily-lidded in his lust. He offered me a sneer and tightened his hold about Mary Anne’s neck. ‘I invite you to try and stop me.’
He continued his filthy pastime.
My skin was glowing in the humidity of the orangery, and I confess I had never felt quite so inept as at that moment. How could I stop the monster?
Mary Anne was making piteous sounds now, and I was urged into action.
I scoured the surrounding area, looking for something that may assist me. It was then I noticed a tarnished garden implement. It was a strange, cruel-looking contraption with three prongs. I had then, and still to this day, no idea what the implement was used for, but nor did I care.
I hurried towards it and took it in my hands; it was covered in soil and grime. I pointed the beastly thing at Arthur.
‘Let her go, now!’ I screamed, as Mary Anne’s eyes rolled back in her head.
Again, Arthur offered me that indolent glare and continued his rut.
There was nothing to it, I simply had to do something.
Without any further warning or preamble, I rushed forward, the three pronged implement aimed at my foul brother-in-law.
I do believe my first strike took the fiend by surprise. The wicked prongs sunk into Arthur’s side with a satisfying thump.
He gave a roar of outrage, his hands releasing Mary Anne’s throat and flying to his injured side, where I could see blood begin to stain the cloth of his
My slippers crunched on the gravel and with every step I verily cringed with anxiety. I pushed the door open.
The instant I entered the orangery, a cloak of citrus scented humidity covered me. The orange trees lined the glass windows, and ripening vibrant fruit swelled on the branches.
I heard a male grunt, then a grotesque, unfamiliar and peculiarly wet sound. I wished to call out, but with difficulty refrained as another guttural grunt was followed by what I could only describe as wet retching.
What the devil was happening? Certainly these were not the sounds of a man in ordinary coitus with a woman. I felt the very hairs upon my neck stand erect. The curious and vulgar sounds repeated once more.
With considerably more anxiety now, I searched the lines of greenery; the gardener had placed some other exotic fruiting plants, some of which towered high above me, and offered the reprobate clever hiding.
As I turned and followed a path to the further side of the orangery, I spied them.
I have never seen a sight quite like it, and hope never to again.
Poor Mary Anne was on her knees before Arthur, whose breeches puddled around his ankles. His hands were tight around the simpleton’s neck, and his member embedded root deep in her mouth.
I could not stem my horror. It was a grotesque mimicry of the act I sometimes partook in with my husband. Similar but brutally different.
A cry of utter dismay and disgust crawled up my throat.
Mary Anne’s face was alarmingly red and it was clear she was suffering both acute choking and strangulation.
I started forward as Arthur thrust into Mary Anne’s widened mouth. Tears streamed down her furiously burning face, and the sounds she made were simply ghastly. Slick wetness oozed down her chin from her retching.
‘Stop, Arthur! You’re killing her!’ I cried as Mary Anne’s hands moved up weakly, trying to bat his strangulating grip from her throat.
He seemed not to hear, nor notice me. His concentration locked upon the unfortunate before him as he pumped into her with devilish force.
Why did she not attempt to bite him? Was she too simple to even consider it?
Again, Mary Anne attempted to release herself.
For a very brief time I was torn — should I run and seek help? But Mary Anne may well be dead from choking by then.
No, I must intervene.
‘Arthur,’ I yelled, ‘stop it at once.’
He turned, his eyes heavily-lidded in his lust. He offered me a sneer and tightened his hold about Mary Anne’s neck. ‘I invite you to try and stop me.’
He continued his filthy pastime.
My skin was glowing in the humidity of the orangery, and I confess I had never felt quite so inept as at that moment. How could I stop the monster?
Mary Anne was making piteous sounds now, and I was urged into action.
I scoured the surrounding area, looking for something that may assist me. It was then I noticed a tarnished garden implement. It was a strange, cruel-looking contraption with three prongs. I had then, and still to this day, no idea what the implement was used for, but nor did I care.
I hurried towards it and took it in my hands; it was covered in soil and grime. I pointed the beastly thing at Arthur.
‘Let her go, now!’ I screamed, as Mary Anne’s eyes rolled back in her head.
Again, Arthur offered me that indolent glare and continued his rut.
There was nothing to it, I simply had to do something.
Without any further warning or preamble, I rushed forward, the three pronged implement aimed at my foul brother-in-law.
I do believe my first strike took the fiend by surprise. The wicked prongs sunk into Arthur’s side with a satisfying thump.
He gave a roar of outrage, his hands releasing Mary Anne’s throat and flying to his injured side, where I could see blood begin to stain the cloth of his
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