The setting A country mansion in Devon England the1840s

I remember it well. It was a bright summer morning.

It was some six years since my marriage to Clarissa my beautiful radiant darling bride, and almost six years since she had cuckolded me and eloped to Brighton with one Colonel H.J.Pickering of the Avon and Somerset Yeomanry.

I had done the rounds of the estate, at least the Northern quarter and had returned to the mansion for lunch.

Cook was waiting. She wanted to speak to me. My heart sank. I knew what was coming.

“I’ve been caught again sir,” she said. “I thought I were past all that sir but I been caught again.”

I put my arm round her protectively. “Shall you see Mrs Jenkins?” I asked.

“If you please sir,” she said. “If you please sir I can’t carry on sir. Fucking you and that sir. The cooking I can do but the fucking and keeping getting caught. Well I’m not getting any younger sir.”

“I know,” I sympathised

“And peoples talking sir,” she added. “I’m not saying I don’t relish fucking with you sir because I do but I’m not getting any younger and with my back.”

“Yes Cook. I understand.” I said with a heavy heart. “If you’ll oblige me for the coming sennight I shall make alternative arrangements.”

Poor cook. She was nothing to look at. Fat one might say unkindly. But it was her big drooping udders which led to that impression. Her belly was surprisingly taught, not that I looked at her when we conjoined. It was generally a candles out business. I cannot to this day remember the colour of her hair, or her eyes. Her teeth were hardly memorable but for the gaps where several had been pulled. But we had an arrangement.

Cooks’ husband Bert had injured himself on the farm. He could no longer do his husbandly duties and could barely do half a days work in a whole day. So seeing their plight I arranged work for Cook, her given name was Molly but she always answered to cook, and she came to work in my kitchens.

Cook was a very fine cook, plain fayre, tasty plain fayre, but my neighbours had French chefs and she felt insecure.

Then my dear wife eloped with Colonel Pickering.

Two nights later cook seduced me.

It was not a romantic scene.

I lay abed near midnight. Reading by candlelight. Cook generally went home at eight. My door opened.

“Beg pardon sir,” Cook said as she stepped inside, “Might I have a word sir?”

I could see she had a crisp clean smock on.

“Yes cook, uh Molly, what troubles you.” I asked.

“Its the missus gone and that,” she said.

“Indeed a sad business,” I agreed.

“And you not getting none and that?” she said awkwardly.

I pondered “And your point is?”

“I ain’t getting none neither.” she admitted.

“Cook you are hardly a courtesan,” I laughed, “Udders like elephant’s trunks, gap toothed.”

She started crying, “Old enough to be my mother!” I laughed, “You do know why Clarissa eloped don’t you?”

“No!” she said, “I wish I hadn’t come if you’re going to be horrible to me!”

“We couldn’t conjoin Cook, we tried repeatedly.” I explained. “But Pickering had little difficulty!”

“Oh, dear, well if you couldn’t get it up for she you won’t for me and that’s for certain,” Cook admitted.

“On the contrary Cook, my member is rampant,” I declared, “See?” I pulled back the bedclothes. My member stood proud within my nightshirt, standing proud like a tent pole.

“Bloody hell sir if you’ll pardon my french, it’s huge!” she gasped.

“Uncomfortably large it proved for poor Clarissa,” I admitted, “So shall we conjoin?”

“I don’t think I can take all that sir.” she said awkwardly.

“Well do your best,” I suggested, “If your babies could come out I’m sure my appendage will slip in.”

“That were years ago, its healed up since,” she suggested.

Cook pulled her smock over head. She wore nothing else and she stood before me naked and slightly stoop backed with the weight of her udders which hung to her navel.

I slipped from the bed and let her sit on the bed edge, I eased her thighs apart and knelt before her and aimed my member at her womb.

The candle flickered casting shadows across the lips of her womb. My helmet brushed her flesh. Delicious sensations raced through my mind. She was moist. She was hot. She was willing.

I flexed my knees and she was mine.

“Oh good god sir you’ve ripped me in half!” she squealed.

“Shut your rattle woman, I’ll make some more room!” I laughed as I thrust again.

“Ooohhh,” she gasped.

I grasped her great left udder, raised it towards my lips and suckled the teat.

“Gor lumme sir, I be going to heaven,” she squealed, “I ant had nothing like it for ten year!”

“No?” I queried.

“Bert used the back passage,” she explained.

“Disgusting,” I declared and in a moment my seed was gushing.

“Oh gore lumme sir you should have pulled out, I’ll get caught you mark my words!” she cried.

“Well if you do I will see you right!” I promised as my seed gushed forth sating her and the world suddenly seemed a very much more pleasant place.

She tried to wriggle out form under me.

“No let it soak in,” I whispered.

“Oh sir!” she exclaimed and she held me to her.

There was no love.