Our animal need for each others’ bodies, and our mutual recognition of that need, was so well-established that Mr. Wharton and I often conversed during the act, even while I was turning red from lifting my flexible leg toward the ceiling while he frigged me roughly from behind.

“It is the first day of August,” he was panting, ramming his prick into me as he held my neck, which was flushed in the candlelight.

I also wanted to make the most of my liaison with the man. In my heart, I knew that he wasn’t worth a fig, but whenever my body made its needs known, he was one of the best people to satisfy them.

“You wouldn’t know it from the weather,” I answered, rubbing my little rosebud frantically with my fingertips. Though I was skilled at getting myself well and finished, Mr. Wharton was so fast that I knew I must not let him get far ahead of me.

“You are anything but cold,” hissed the widower, clutching me even closer to him. “You are always hot as summer, Mrs. Allen.”

It was not a Shakespearian compliment, but it was an accurate one. I had become acquainted with Mr. Wharton when he was a customer in my shop, and he was several strata above me in society. We could never be seen together in public, except at the shop, and even then rarely. But we had quickly discovered a shared hobby, and soon were meeting at least weekly to tear at each other in Mr. Wharton’s fine home.

And to him, I was Mrs. Allen. After my break with the Barlow family, I decided to take on an entirely new assumed name. A friend in London had helped me, and soon I was established as Mrs. Allen.

Miss Quinton had been an innocent young girl, clever with books but not very well-versed in the art of earning money. She had been unmarried, and not particularly interested in starting a family. And she had gone off to a new job as a governess and never returned.

In her place, a new matron arose. Mrs. Allen was a respectable married lady. A widow, which was sad, but she did not speak of her deceased husband. Mrs. Allen provided for her family with the utmost diligence and respectability. And when Mrs. Allen wished to take her pleasure, she snuck into the homes of rich customers and proceeded to ride the lascivious bastards until she was short of breath.

Except for tonight. Something had stirred within me, and I lowered my leg as I tried to understand which of Mr. Wharton’s words had been somehow offensive. He had, after all, only been making innocent comments about the weather, then gone on to say that “The end of summer can’t come fast enough, I’m sick to death of all of these balls and dull merry-making farces. Ever since spring began, I’ve been dull.”

And then I realized it. For the first time in a decade, I had almost passed by the first day in August. It was the anniversary of the day when I first opened my shop, praying that the loan from my friend and my own paltry savings would last enough for me to push into black. Already heavy with child, I did not have the choice of failure. Usually, it was something I thought of for weeks, and when the date actually arrived, I tended to cry in secret, remembering that strenuous time. This year, it had come and gone, and I had not even noticed until summer was nearly over.

“August is begun?” I asked him, pulling away, and he frowned. As a rule, interruptions to our coitus were not to be entertained until he was so close to bursting that any continuation of the act would be dangerous.

“God, what does it matter?” he grumbled, slapping at my derrière as he rose. “These balls are not so awful when I know I can get my needs seen to at the end of the night.”

He positioned me so that I was kneeling on the couch, my head facing to wall, my rear hanging over the edge. With expert hands, Mr. Wharton grabbed at my waist and began thrusting into me again, growling as he did so. The man enjoyed being behind me, probably so he could grab and pull as he pleased.

And when he was at last ready to finish, he said, “That it, Mrs. Allen” and pushed me ever so slightly. I knew the routine, which was that I was to lie on my back on the couch as he spurted himself all over me. For he liked to see me lying there, helpless, covered in the evidence of his virility.

After that, I was permitted to clean myself with silk, and on the rare occasions that the act had not been enough for me, Mr. Wharton liked to sit in a nearby chair and watch me touch myself.

But that night, it seemed to be beyond my power. Images of Mr. Barlow, the man I had once thought would be my companion in old age, flashed across my mind as I sat up on the couch, assuming the position that I found most comfortable for self pleasure.

This was usually rather easy for me. After all, in my everyday life such roguish pleasures were rarely seen, and so the moments that I shared with Mr. Wharton let every inch of my being breathe with a lust that was usually trapped inside. But the thought of my former poverty continued to thrum at my brain, and I could not help but compare the itch of my current lust with the tides that I had felt when I gazed at Luke that day, ten years ago, in the little country church.

It was only when I thought of what the room would look like if Mr. Barlow were there that I was finally able to start twitching my hips onto my fingers with the requisite passion. Mr. Wharton growled with appreciation, picking up his weapon once again, but my thoughts were only with the man I had known for one complete night. How Luke Barlow had wanted me, that first and only night we spent together! Mr. Wharton wanted me too, of course, but the difference was that he would have been able to accept almost anyone else, provided she had long hair and an impish grin. Luke had actually wanted me, and the thought made me shiver with longing.

And, for a few minutes, I squeezed my eyes shut and forced out an ending to the evening. For no matter how troubled my mind was, by stripping naked and spreading my legs on a silken couch I knew that I should be able to get my body to respond.