This story contains explicit smut
THE VANISHING NIGHTDRESSES
Chapter One
Margaret stood by the window of her hotel suite and watched the busy thoroughfare below, her mind a tizzy with all the diversions that grappled for her interest. She was mesmerised by the jostling toing and froing of people, horses, wagons, and carriages, all going about their endless business. It was as if this city never slowed down, never stopped, never slept, its enterprise a beating heart that pumped vivacious blood through the veins of Britannia and her expanding empire.
Margaret had never been to Manchester before, in fact, Milton was the most industrious town she had ever known. It had taken the southern lass a long time to get used to being part of this intrepid England of new, this phenomenon that was a manufacturing metropolis. The clamour of life in a trade town had challenged her at first, for it had been an assault on the senses, with all its excessive noise, pollution, grime, and the constant stench of smoke. Milton was a relentless hullabaloo, one that was a surge of innovativeness, a place where the working men and women were labouring to create a new nation. It was, in definition, a revolution in the making.
For Margaret, she had been so used to the elegance and ease of London life, as well as the quiet tranquillity and simplicity of Helstone, that moving to an urban outpost in the far-flung north had felt as foreign to her as Mars. Living in Milton had been an education in terms of both her understanding of society as a whole, but also, much more intimately, it had evoked an evolution in herself. However, for all its efforts, her dear Milton was nothing compared to the dynamic creature that now rumbled before her, with its factory buildings and billowing chimneys dominating the horizon for miles around, seeming to stretch to the edges of the earth itself. Here, everything was brasher, everything was bigger, everything was brisker, indeed, everything was breathtakingly brave in its pursuit of modernity.
As Margaret watched the swarm of men and women scurry below like well-groomed mice, she was glad that John had persuaded her to come. They had been married for twenty-two months and their daughter, Maria, the apple of their eye, was now one year old. Margaret had never been away from her baby girl, and the new mother had only been absent from Milton once, taking her cherub to London to meet her cousins.
John had hardly left town either, for he was reluctant to forsake his wife and daughter for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Therefore, the master of Marlborough Mills had only departed the town a handful of times in the past two years in order to attend to urgent matters of trade. On these occasions, he had grudgingly dragged himself away from his two treasured ladies with such a look of sadness, one would think he was saying farewell forever. Subsequently, he would always ensure that he was gone and back in a day, guaranteeing that before midnight, he would have returned home, looked in on his sleeping babe, and crawled into bed beside his beloved wife, whom he tenderly enclosed in his arms, lest he wake his angel from her slumber.
Nevertheless, this time, John had been given no alternative but to stay in Manchester for three days, as he had an eventful schedule of meetings with suppliers, investors, and shipping merchants. At first, John and Margaret had been dismayed at the thought of being separated for the first night since their wedding, the concept causing them to both hold each other that little bit tighter while they slept, unwilling to relinquish even a second together. However, a few days later, John burst through the door of their bedroom like a madman, grinning from cheek to cheek. With astounding momentum, he had rushed up to Margaret, picked her up off the floor, and spun her around in circles, making her dreadfully dizzy. With the elation of a schoolboy on Christmas Eve, he had explained with garbling oration, that he had had the most brilliant idea: Margaret would come with him!
At the outset, Margaret had been overjoyed, but then, her jubilation had faded, much like a hot-air balloon deflating, for she realised that it would never work. To be sure, despite all her eagerness for the plan, her maternal instincts pricked at her conscience, and she appreciated that it was simply too impractical to take the baby with them to Manchester. She knew that it was not unheard of to travel with a child, but Maria did not settle easily when she took her naps, and the prospect of removing her from the comfort and familiarity of her own cot, her own house, her own routine, it was just not fair. The little love would startle at all the hubbub of a chaotic city and would most likely bleat like a lamb from dawn to dusk, blubbing to go home. Besides, she was teething and fractious, so would probably scream at the top of her lungs, making the whole trip a farce, and her parents would return to Milton more fatigued than when they had left.
Thinking on this, Margaret had shaken her head and apologetically explained to John that it was a wonderful idea, but that it would be irrational to take their daughter to Manchester, not when she was so young. Dear John! His cheerful face had clouded, his mouth settling into a stern line, his brow creasing, and the hint of a scowl forming at his jaw. The poor man had looked devastated by disappointment, his smile plummeting into a forlorn frown. However, being an understanding husband and father, he had concurred, accepting his wife's reasoning. He had muttered something incoherent about his proposal being absurd and that he should have foreseen the difficulties. He had slunk off, his shoulders drooping, his darling heartbreaking at the idea of being separated from his girls for three whole days.
Nonetheless, a short while later, John had again bounded into the room like an excited puppy, his energy and enthusiasm heartily restored. He had kissed Margaret soundly, so passionately in fact, that she had almost swooned, and for so long, that she had almost fainted for lack of oxygen. John had then proceeded to reassure her that all was well, for it had all been arranged, meaning that there was now no impediment to their excursion. He told Margaret that his mother had volunteered to look after Maria for the duration, leaving both husband and wife free to have a romantic holiday together, one that was unrestricted by cotton, children, commitments, and for the most part, (John had thought privately), free of clothes. Well, John had admitted that there would be the odd irritable interruption of cotton and commitments to their time away, but that was immaterial, the most important thing was that she would be there.
Initially, Margaret had been unsure. She had paced around the room and nibbled her lip, considering this solution carefully. John had watched in suffocating silence, his head twisting from side to side as she walked hither and thither across their bedroom. He was twitchy, for he desperately hoped, nay, he prayed, that she would consent to this arrangement. The selfless part of him wanted to give her a rest, a chance to be spoilt and pampered by her husband, for he would treat her to dinner and the theatre, he would buy her jewellery and flowers, he would rub her shoulders and brush her hair. Dang it! – he would do anything to make her happy, for his glorious girl deserved nothing less! However, he had to confess that the more selfish part of him just wanted to whisk his beautiful wife away and have her all to himself for a while, just her, and him, and a locked hotel bedroom.
Margaret had continued with her rambling around the room, her shoes shuffling along the wooden floor, her skirts rustling as she went. The cogs of her mind turned like the machines in the mill, as she processed this resolution that had been presented to her. She liked the idea of spending some time alone with John. She liked the idea of experiencing a change of scene. She liked the idea of giving her mother-in-law the opportunity to spend some time bonding with Maria, for when John and Margaret were home, they were so infatuated with their baby that nobody else could even get a hold of the mite. What was more, she supposed it would be interesting to become better acquainted with how John conducted trade out with his hometown, for, after all, she was his primary sponsor and shareholder. Still, there was one immeasurable benefit that she could foresee. Fanny had summoned Margaret to tea over that period, a lunch that would involve primly sitting with the other mill master's wives discussing skirt-hoop circumferences, the latest seasonal patterns, what Paris dress designs were in vogue, and, of course, what they all intended on wearing to Fanny's forthcoming dinner party. Now then, if Margaret went to Manchester, she would miss this titillating discussion – what a shame!
Finally, after days of John's incessant entreating, negotiating, and the odd attempt at bribery, Margaret had finally granted him his wish and had agreed to accompany him on his commercial jaunt to Manchester. She had strolled over to his office to inform him one lunchtime and had laughed to see that for the rest of the day, the previously uptight master had appeared lighter than air, his mood as bright and breezy as a summer afternoon. At one point, she could have sworn that she saw him skipping, but no, it surely must have been a trick of the light, for John would never be so blithe. Unknown to her, what she had really witnessed was John hopping, for in his distracted rejoicing, he had bashed his foot against a cotton bale, causing him to hobble about like a cripple for the remainder of the day. Still, no amount of mockery from his workers could wipe the grin off their employer's face, for the typically grumpy master was as pleased as punch.
All the same, when the ordained day had arrived, Margaret had chuckled to find that in spite of being the instigator of this scheme, John had been the nervous nelly, not her. During the morning, when they had made ready to leave, far from Margaret being the cooing maternal hen, clucking around the coop, it had been John who had found his fatherly feathers ruffled. The formidable Mr Thornton had flapped about the nursery, anxiously fretting at the idea of leaving his princess behind. John had stressed that it was customary for him to undertake the task of dotingly bathing Maria and putting her to bed with a story each evening, (well, normally a tutorial about trade), so what would she think if he were not there tonight? Oh Heavens! – would she feel abandoned? John had been terribly apprehensive and was on the brink of calling the whole trip off, as it was not his buyers who needed his attention, no, it was his little girl.
In the end, after losing the will to live trying to cope with their intolerable mollycoddling, it had been Hannah who had taken charge of the situation. Like an authoritarian matron, she had marched the couple to the front door and near enough shoved them out, dismissing them from their own home. Holding a gurgling baby, who merrily waved ta-ta to her Mama and Dada, Hannah had told them that Maria would quite easily survive three days without the nuisance of her pestering parents. She promised that the child would be as right as rain and that she refused to be denied the chance to make a fuss of her precious granddaughter. With that, the wearied matriarch had bid them a safe trip, bestowed a kiss on each of their cheeks, gestured goodbye, and abruptly closed the door in their flabbergasted faces.
John and Margaret had skulked away, feeling rather like exiled expats. Still, as their carriage trundled towards the train station, with each clippity-clop of the horses' hooves, they sensed the tension of responsibility tumble from their shoulders. By the time they boarded the train, they felt as free as birds. They had been fortunate to get a compartment to themselves, so, cosying up in a corner, John had draped his arm around his wife, and Margaret had shambled into the embrace of her husband, and all the cares of the outside world faded away into insignificance. As the train lumbered through the town and sped through the scenic countryside, the pair of lovers shared a few demure smiles and blushes, their bodies, hands, fingers, and faces, brushing against one another with innocence. It felt just like it had when they had travelled back to Milton together two years ago, their pulses racing with the thrill of the moment and the anticipation of all the happiness that was to come. Only now, they were married, and neither God nor man could stop them from expressing their love in every way their hearts desired.
It was now, several hours later that Margaret stood by the window of her hotel dressing room, watching the world go by. Heaving a sigh of relief, she stretched her arms high above her head and wiggled her fingers and toes. She had to admit, it was lovely to be unhampered by the concerns of the every day, even for a few short days. She adored her lot in life; she would not change it for anything, not one bit of it. She loved her daughter, she loved her house, she loved the mill, she loved the school, she loved her new family, she loved her friends, and she loved her town, smog and all. Nevertheless, it was a treat to be away from it all for a little while, and, she thought with a blush, it was a luxury to be alone with the man she loved best of all.
As Margaret scandalously thought about all that she and her husband might get up to while they were at liberty to enjoy each other's company, she distractedly turned to unpack her belongings. The Thorntons were due to attend a dinner in an hour or two with a prospective financier, so Margaret had already started getting ready with the help of a hotel maid. She had been assisted out of her layers and was now standing in just her silken robe, the soft material feeling refreshingly smooth against her skin. It was a short gown that rested above her knees, scantily covering her in a thin layer of material. She had included it because she knew John approved of it most avidly, which was amusing because he never usually paid much attention to fashion. The maid had gone to prepare her a bath and John had ventured out to procure a carriage to take them to their engagement. Therefore, left to occupy herself, Margaret had opted to use the time to organise her bits and pieces.
As Margaret lifted the lid of her trunk, she started to sift through it, idly separating everything into designated piles. She found her stockings, her drawers, her corsets, her chemises, her dresses, her shoes, her handkerchiefs, her gloves, her shawls, her…wait!
Margaret scrunched up her nose in bewilderment and began to rummage around the trunk, her hands reaching to every nook and cranny, hunting for a hidden article. Nevertheless, as she continued to search, it seemed that the item was not buried beneath her other garments but was in fact altogether absent. Placing her hands on her hips, Margaret cast her mind back. No, no, she had definitely seen Dixon pack them. But then…how had they become misplaced?
Wondering if her husband had returned from his errand, Margaret called over her shoulder: 'John, darling, have you seen…'
But as Margaret turned, she jumped, for there, leaning against the doorway of her alcove dressing room was her husband. Clutching her chest, she caught her breath, trying to calm the fluttering in her breast. Nonetheless, her heart soon hastened again, for she noticed that John looked distinctly playful, a cheeky grin curling his lips. How long had he been standing there, watching her? She was surprised not merely by his presence, but by his state of dress, or rather, undress. He was only in his trousers and shirt, which was mostly unbuttoned, revealing a taut torso, a delectable sight which she tried not to focus on. For a man who was typically attired with sombre fastidiousness, he now appeared deliciously unkempt, and she felt a familiar stirring of desire in the pit of her stomach. Slanting against the frame and blocking her escape, he raised his eyebrows, indicating that she should finish her sentence.
'John,' Margaret resumed, 'have you seen my nightdresses? I cannot find them, not one. But I was sure Dixon packed them and I only have one trunk. Could they have been mislaid in your tru…,' Margaret trailed off, her breath hitching as she spotted the glint of mischief in her husband's eye, and she suddenly realised what he had done.
Margaret felt a shrill sensation tickle every fibre of her being. She reddened and her colour only deepened as she saw the way her husband let his gaze hungrily roam over her, his eyes feasting on every visible bit of skin, his roguish mind avidly picturing everything that was concealed. He did not even try to disguise his lascivious intentions, and a tingle titillated her nerves as she perceived something poking out from within the confines of his trousers.
John eyed her ravenously, for she was the most unreasonably mouth-watering woman imaginable, a goddess, a temptress. Oh hell! – That robe was teasingly tight, clinging to her in a way that cruelly taunted her red-blooded husband. Her body swept in and out most pleasingly, her breasts and bottom like pert peaks. Her cascading hair was long and luscious, her skin glowed radiantly, and her parted lips were soft, full, and rosy, inciting him to kiss her. Good God! – she was so arousing, so appealing, so damned appetising, he just wanted to devour every last morsel of her.
'John?' Margaret whispered, the words sticking in her throat, 'what did you do with my nightdresses?'
Pushing himself off the door, John began to stalk towards her, his steps slow, steady, and shamefully seductive. With an amorous twinkle in his eyes, he got closer and closer, until he was towering over her, his scrumptiously sculpted body mere inches from her own. Margaret could feel butterflies fluttering in her belly and she sensed a dampness trickling between her thighs.
With a tone that was deep and gravelly, he confessed: 'I took them out of your trunk.'
'And where are they now?' she inquired, although she could easily guess.
'Home,' he admitted huskily, his hot breath stirring the hairs on her neck.
Margaret trembled with anticipation. 'Why?'
'Why do you think?' he asked, his hand creeping towards the folds of her robe. 'Because I want to sleep next to my naked wife,' he explained candidly, his fingers slipping between the material of her gown, the tips stroking at her sleek skin.
Margaret gulped. She hardly knew what to say in response. John had a greater talent for talking lewdly than she did, and even though Margaret knew he enjoyed it when she tried, she still felt terribly foolish in comparison to his brazenly racy remarks.
'What about you?' she checked; her voice scratchy. 'It is hardly fair that I am expected to sleep uncovered and you are not,' she joshed, knowing full well that they would both be spending their nights here nude…and probably the days too.
Chuckling, John leaned down to whisper in her ear, his tongue licking her lobe. 'Now then, do you really think I brought any nightclothes either?'
With that, as quickly as the snap of a finger and thumb, John lifted Margaret into the air and crushed his mouth against hers. Moaning, she wrapped her legs around him and let out a breathy sigh as she felt his hardness grind against her unadorned lower regions. She pushed against it impatiently, indecently requesting to have his massive shaft stuffed inside her. Staggering backwards, John carried Margaret to the bedroom, his hands groping audaciously at her bottom and breasts. Stumbling towards the bed, John groaned, for the randy master fully intended to pleasure her so mercilessly that all of Manchester would know the Thorntons had come to town. Imagining all the riding and rutting they would be doing over the next seventy-two hours, John grunted and pulled her firmer against him, his erection digging into her so instinctively, that it nearly slipped in impulsively. Doing a quick calculation, he deduced that he could have her at least ten times before they went home, perhaps fifteen if they discreetly did it while they were out and about in the city.
'Have you seen the size of the bed?' he asked, his face pressed against her neck, his mouth peppering kisses along the length of that glorious slope. 'It's the biggest damned bed we've ever slept in,' he observed gruffly, his hands sneaking under the hem of her robe and along the outside of her velvety leg.
'I know,' Margaret replied, her fingers digging into his hair and tugging at the strands, revelling in his grumbles that were born of half pain, half pleasure.
'Mind you,' he went on, his teeth nipping at her ear, 'I don't know how much sleeping we'll be doing.'
'Oh?'! Margaret said, feigning innocence. 'Did you have another activity in mind, Sir,' she queried, clinching his bottom lip between her teeth and biting hard.
John growled and threw her on top of the mattress, before looking at her like a starving man surveying a banquet, causing her toes to curl with expectation. He quickly removed his trousers and with his penis pointing at her purposefully, he clambered on top of his wife, his body flattening her own, trapping her in place like a prisoner, one that was about to be punished for being so damned enticing.
'Yes!' he replied thickly, 'Sex!'
Margaret gasped as he brushed his finger along the apex of her thigh.
'Forget all our meetings! I want to spend every hour of the next three days fucking you so hard that you lose your fucking voice!' he rumbled, thrusting his pelvis against her own.
Margaret whimpered under the intensity of her husband's fiery passion and began unbuttoning his shirt hurriedly.
'This bed,' he added, his tongue halfway down her throat, 'we can spread your legs as far as they will go,' he snarled like a ravenous wolf. 'I want to shove my cock as deep as it can go. I want my sack in you, Meg!'
'Be my guest,' Margaret muttered, 'Do your worst!' she invited, before sinking her teeth into his neck and sighing as he snarled with gratification.
John and Margaret continued like this for some time, rolling around in a tangled mass of limbs and drinking in the delights of each other. Tearing off their clothes and ripping his shirt, they lunged forwards, colliding in a carnal embrace, pawing frantically at exposed flesh. Their hands and mouths roamed free, exploring every rise and fall of the exotic and erotic paradise of their partner's fascinating body. They had lain together more times than it was humanly possible to count, but still, they were eternally charmed as well as humbled by the experience of knowing each other in such an exquisitely intimate way.
Then, a few minutes later, John accidentally knelt on Margaret's pinkie and she yelped, wincing at the crushing weight of his muscular frame squashing down on such a minor part of her. Without a second's hesitation, John sprung back like a coil and scrambled away, his face ashen with worry.
'Margaret?!' he cried. 'Have I hurt you?' he asked, his eyes scanning her frantically for any sign of injury. Shaking his head and letting out a shuddering sigh of frustration, he cursed himself for being so thoughtless, for being so unforgivably insatiable when his darling wife was in such a delicate condition. Before Margaret could reply, he had fetched her robe and helped her back into it, before setting about attentively swaddling her in blankets, handling her as if she were a piece of fragile china. He put his shredded shirt back on and wore it almost like a cloak of disgrace. Finally, after his cherished wife was cocooned in a protective shell, John carefully settled himself by her side, tucking Margaret safely in the warm embrace of his secure arms, holding her close and burrowing his nose in her hair with a sniff of repentance.
'Sweetheart,' he rasped, a guilty lilt to his tone. 'My love, I am so sorry,' he grumbled. 'What a beast I am!'
Margaret blinked. 'John, what on earth are you talking about?'
'The baby,' he whispered, tenderly caressing her belly, his touch so soft that Margaret could feel the sacred love pouring out from his fingertips. 'I should not have been so rough with you, my darling. I should have been more considerate of your condition and the welfare of our babe,' he acknowledged, his previously lustful expression now troubled by an abashed sulk. 'It is not how a gentleman ought to behave when his wife is with child, not when she is bearing the most precious gift in all the world,' he said, lowering his head and lightly kissing her stomach.
'I am sorry, I just…I wanted…you looked so…I was an animal, forgive me,' he brooded, his head ducking behind hers in shame.
Margaret smiled as she melted into her husband's tender cuddle, his arms were her nest, her refuge, her home. She swivelled around so that she could curl up against his chest, his muscles forming a firm but comfortable pillow. Margaret placed a soothing palm on his breast, beaming as she saw her rings sparkling in the light, a reminder that she was married to the most wonderful man. She patted him sensitively, her touch a source of solace, a calming reassurance to steady the beat of his loving heart, one that overflowed with a generosity that never ceased to amaze her.
It was true, she was with child once more. She was not very far along, probably only around three months, but just like with her first confinement, she had instinctively known almost straight away, her maternal sixth sense detecting the new life growing within. During both terms, she had been content to wait a while prior to asking the doctor to call, as she thought it prudent to delay and see if her course returned and whether her tummy swelled before getting overly and prematurely excited.
Nevertheless, for both pregnancies, John had been restless with an exhausting combination of animation and apprehension, meaning that he had practically hauled the poor doctor, a specialist, to the house, hovering over him like a menace while he examined a mortified Margaret. The physician had tried to explain to John that it was not standard practice for fathers to take such an active interest in the processes of childbearing, childbirth, and childrearing.
Certainly, for when Maria had been born, John had made a right nuisance of himself loitering outside the birthing room, popping his head in every few minutes to check how things were, soliciting what he could do to help, and pulling horrified expressions at the indecorous sights and sounds before him.
However, despite the doctor's frustration, John had been as stubborn as a mule and refused to budge. According to him, his place was by his wife's side and nothing and no one would dissuade him from his post. The obstinate master had folded his arms, resolutely stood rooted to the spot, and asked an array of maddening questions, leaving the doctor quite worn out. This time round, he had essentially incarcerated the physician until he had assessed Margaret thoroughly enough to be able to answer John's long list of exacting enquiries. Needless to say, when the medic finally escaped the mill house, he was in need of a tonic himself. Reaching the sanctuary of his home, the man had promptly prescribed himself the best medicine in his cabinet, a stiff tipple of brandy.
It was due to John's incessant worrying that his wife now deemed it best to broach the subject of his latest spasm of panic sympathetically. As Margaret lay in John's ardent hold, she closed her eyes dreamily. She cherished the feeling of their baby growing in her tummy; it made her feel whole, as if a part of her had been missing before. Even although it was terribly early and there was barely a bump to be seen, she felt sure that she could distinguish every minuscule change in the tiny Thornton that was thriving in her womb. She did not know it then, but she was nurturing not one baby, but two, twin boys. Margaret smiled as she felt John nestle himself against her and sighed with the blissful feeling of his hand protectively cradling her abdomen, for she felt more treasured than ever when he was close to her like this, disclosing his tender devotion for her and their little ones.
'John,' she commenced cautiously, leaning her head back so that it rested under his chin. She giggled as she felt him scratch the whiskers of his facial hair across her cheek, much like an affectionate tomcat nuzzling its mistress. 'John, my love, you have never once been coarse with me,' she reassured him kindly.
'I have!' he protested. 'I am often…rough in our…intimacy. Both my conduct and language are far from gentlemanly.'
'No, it is not true,' she insisted. 'Yes, perhaps some of our couplings have been…,' she searched for the right word, finally landing on, 'vigorous.'
'Aye, you can say that again,' John whispered darkly into her ear as he smirked, his hand tightening ever so slightly on her hip, drawing her backside further towards him, his groin chafing against her.
'Yes, well, we have certainly been energetic on many occasions. And yes, your language is more uncouth than I was once used to, but you know I do not mind it, I like it even,' she blushed. 'But John, darling…,' she went on, tilting her gaze so that she looked into his eyes, his orbs filled with contrition. 'You have never once been forceful with me. You are the gentlest of husbands and of lovers,' she reassured. 'Come now, please, do not be like this. I did not yelp because you hurt me in that way, I did it because you knelt on my finger,' she explained, raising the offended digit, pretending to pout in pain.
Margaret's heart swelled as John glanced attentively towards her hand, his look one of genuine alarm, his handsome face shadowed by a rueful frown. Then, tenderly, he lifted her hand and with a featherlight touch, he gradually kissed each finger in turn, his moist lips anointing her with his adoration. Margaret could have burst with her love for him, for it was true, despite his strength and stature, he was the kindliest of men. The very idea of him hurting her was as ludicrous as a man on the moon.
'John, I am not made of glass, you dear, silly boy,' she teased warmly. 'I am no dainty damsel, I thought you knew that about me, it was one of the reasons you fell in love with me.'
'It was! It is!' he asserted adamantly. 'But Meg, I need to look after you, the bab ─'
But Margaret held up a stifling finger and halted his dispute by placing it against his lips.
'John, I promise that I shall not shatter at my husband's passionate attentions. I am made of sterner stuff, I assure you. We have been through all of this before and all was well.'
Caressing his stubbled jaw, Margaret gazed into his penetrating eyes, ones that she was finding herself quickly and willingly becoming lost in. They were brimming with love, and, if she looked carefully, a flicker of smouldering lust.
'Please, John, touch me,' she begged, her tone beseeching, her voice seductive. 'I want you to touch me…master.'
That did the trick!