Dear Betsy

The first thought that crossed my mind was that the little minx was attempting to distract me from my investigation. I could not have been more wrong. She took my hands, all the while wriggling her hips and very inviting bottom, so much so that before she had actually placed my fingers upon her titties she had ensconced the shaft head rather neatly into the first fold.

Naturally my concentration was somewhat less than it should have been at this point and I was finding it quite difficult to proceed with my original intended purpose. Miss Lane, however was more alert to the situation at this time and ceased her wiggling so that I might continue upon my path.

Now, how to ascertain that which I believed, without embarrassment to Georgie's sensibility? The nipple, of course. Keeping my eyes locked on her own, my thumbs began their own journey of discovery around and about the already mentioned display of areolae. The bodice as is fashionable, did not reach more than half way around the underside of the globe of the breasts, leaving the nipple itself covered only with silk, cotton or whatever that décolletage might be.

You will recall that it was this very area that Gertrude Grey had the devil's job itself to dissemble. Here then, was the test. (rather than the testes which were elsewhere!) I first came upon the soft nubs, which obviously heightened my suspicion immediately. Although they were in the right place they were, even being impaled below and tenderly handled above, they were still soft! You of course, would not have been so eager to fall upon this further clue, being as it were living evidence that they (as yours) will stiffen or blossom only upon manipulation. Having found them I tested this very idea almost automatically. Georgie indeed, flashed her lashes to signal or dare me to do exactly that.

I did so and elicited from her a hiss of indrawn breath. I continued. Pulling and tugging, rolling them between thumb and finger for quite some time before I noticed in fact that they had stiffened and were distended. During the course of this manipulation Georgie, between gasps and sighs, had striven to completely envelop my shaft entirely within her and with smooth undulations was gently fucking my rod.

At this soft insistence I straightened my back and took some short while to indulge that for which we had initially gathered. I lifted Georgie's legs, with my hands supporting beneath her knees and gave her reason to gasp. My strokes were many and varied, slow and long, tiny stabbing efforts with only the glans intruding, short pumping strokes with sacs slapping the table edge and occasionally a single hard driving thrust from tip to stem in one quick motion.

As I fucked her I took the opportunity to assess the state of play across the rest of the table. The farmer's daughters were all completely naked and stuffed to overflowing, teeth bared, gaping 'O' of rich red rimmed mouth or intense lip bitten concentration. The rest of the lady guests were for the most part in various stages of nakedness but all were sporting full and luxuriant quim coifs excepting for Betty, who was lightly covered with downy blonde fur. You would have enjoyed Betty I am sure.

When I at last looked back at Georgie she had taken the opportunity to convince me of her upper feminine attraction and laid open her bodice. There were indeed, dissolving my suspicions, a pair of very ripe jugs. In order to confirm what my eyes could see I stopped stroking into her backside in order to allow those mams settle into stillness. I then gave her the full length for two or three timely pushes making her titties wash along her ribs and almost to her chin. Then from a few short shoves I saw that they conformed to my experience and rippled across their circumference, hardened nipples dancing lightly on the wavelets. After which there was only the 'switchback' remaining as proof positive.

I began the preliminaries and noticed an audience of two or three fellows who were seemingly prepared to shoot at any time, waiting only for my finale. Without hesitation I pushed left, withdrew and pushed from the right and with great good fortune Georgie's assets took opposite motion, the nipple of each moving in contrary circles. Having established the rhythm all that remained was some concerted effort in order to maintain it. With cries of 'bravo' and 'well done' I had once more achieved the sexual equivalent of that music hall entertainment of plate spinning.

Georgie was in delirium as I sawed contentedly into her box, so much so that she instinctively reached for her cock in order to fully access her obviously verging orgasm. I forestalled her efforts and imminent unmasking by reaching beneath her skirts and taking a firm hold of her straining length. But now I was in a very specific quandary. Amidst many and varied cries and squeals, moans and screeches of female orgasm there was to be the final event. This is, I think, a new one to you Betsy. All shall be revealed.

It seemed as though the entire company were now awaiting my own lady's triumphal appearance at heaven's gate. That she was bound there could be no doubt, so why hadn't I delivered of her that far reach? To my shame I had not an inkling as to how we would finish the piece without giving away Miss Lane's secret.

This was the point at which I realised that (apart from the obvious) Georgie was much more than she seemed. She reached forward and pulled me down towards her, ostensibly to bite and nibble at my ears. Her first whispered words were "Keep fucking." This task was not exactly onerous.

"What's the problem?" she asked. I replied that she first had to orgasm before the final competition could begin. "What competition?" was her next question. I explained about the shooting contest which was the novel highlight to complete the repast. Her solution was both diabolical and simultaneously exquisite. A sleight of hand worthy of any prestidigitator.

I raised myself and surveyed my audience which was eagerly anticipating the gun. Two of the farm girls along with Betty and Sarah were in the throes of their fifth or fiftieth of multiple pleasures and all of the gentlemen were performing steady maintenance of their rigidity.

I put our plan into action as soon as Georgie began her first crooning note of verisimilitude. Following her fakery and orchestrated lead I was soon pounding into her dirt box with abandon whilst keeping a tight grip on her cock. As she began to convulse in her subtly underplayed performance I pressed home to the hilt and filled her guts with my seed and at the same time gave the appearance of energetic assistance. Now we had to switch roles in order to convince the onlookers.

Georgie lay gasping for breath as I feigned withdrawal from her and then slid sinuously home once again whilst at the same time revealing her tumescence as my own. For her part Miss Lane, still apparently in subsidence, pushed down her skirts to hide the fact that the stiff shaft in my fingers was her own. Simultaneously around the table eleven other cocks were cocked, withdrawn, slick with girl-grease and more than ready to unload.

At this our host Josiah issued the command: "Ladies, to your elbows if you please." With one or two exceptions and confusions all our ladies attained the necessary attitude. Shoulders raised and facing their several firing squads. "Gentlemen..." intoned Josiah "Beat. Your. Meat."

At the command each gentleman began the serious business of the vinegar stroke. The aim (if you'll pardon the pun) is to shoot our outpouring as near as possible straight between our ladies' eyes. Having curtailed our advancement for so long it was a mere matter of five or six hand's breadths before any one of us had pulled the trigger. Now came the switch and the next illusion. Whilst actually detumescing I had to appear 'en petite mort' and whilst orgasmic Georgie had to fake post climactic bliss. The one thing I was completely unprepared for however was volume. Which had two surprising and vastly entertaining outcomes.

Twixt grunts and groans, growls and yelps a cheer rose, marking not only a ladies face but the event of a close hit, indeed the farm girl (Emma once again) was celebrating with loud calls and laughter as man spume dripped delicately from the end of her upturned nose. With all but one girl now adorned with glistening trails it seemed the contest was all but over. I was, as you will understand, at something of a two-fold disadvantage, but after much urging and some small assistance from my companion I had Georgie at the brink and finally pushed her over.

To my astonishment (almost making me forget my supposed role as onanist) a great silvery stream of spunk erupted forth from my stand-in appendage, sailed in one long string over Georgie's head, across the width of the table and hit that communist Paine straight, smack, plumb between the eyes. Such was the erotic effect of the flying gout now pulsing in reducing streams covering Miss Lane's hair, face (left eye not central), her jiggling breasts and her skirts that I once again without so much as a thrust ejected another sacfull into her backside thus lending verisimilitude to our hoodwink.

Well Betsy, that was how we met. What I will now impart is even more fantastical.

Over the two months following our 'introduction' I met with Miss Georgie Lane on several occasions, almost every one of them being of an intimate affair. I say almost because I met with 'her' twice without my direct knowledge of her identity. These two meetings (I only now realise) were with her as a man. Not merely dressed in male clothing or with gummed moustaches or other such covert trickery but as a man. How can I be sure? Because the second time that I came upon Mr. Gregory Lancet (notice the similarity of name?) was at my own club, from where after lunch and at least a half bottle of fine port we went in search of amusement, which we found in the shape of three ladies of my sometime acquaintance of impeccable family and sound upbringing and fortunately well versed in the 'politics' of society.

Without delving into great detail I shall say that this Gregory, myself and our good companions became involved throughout the night ending naked and wanton in the town house. We took turns with the girls, on two occasions I took Gregory as he spiked one or the other of them and in the morning I woke to find myself an integral part of an oral 'daisy chain'. This was to be our penultimate meeting in either guise because the next time we met he was she again and that is when I stopped her.

Now, how do I come to the conclusion that a man can turn himself into the very essence of femininity (appendages not withstanding) seemingly at will? The answer is that she told me and when she told me all the various clues of the previous seven or eight weeks fell into place, leaving me in no doubt whatsoever that a) she must not be allowed to continue and b) I have given this earth to an unknowable future.

This will be extremely difficult to grasp, but if anyone can I am sure that you will my dearest Betsy.

My last meeting with Georgie Lane was paradoxically her first meeting with me.

It took place in the park where I take my morning constitutional watching the horse-riders gallop and the children under their nanny's careful eye playing ducks and drakes with the various wildlife thereabouts, pigeons, squirrel etc. All at once, almost drowned by thundering hooves I was beset by a strident voice calling warning "Sir. Be careful Sir. Mind the way." Turning I was struck a glancing blow by the flank of a dappled hunter, spinning me about but causing no harm other than to lose my footing.

Before I could raise myself from the floor I found soft helping hands upon my shoulders and a concerned voice in my ringing ears. "Oh Sir." Cried the familiar and forlorn voice "I must apologise. I'm dreadfully sorry Sir." I made no bones about the incident other than to assure the blurred visage that I was unharmed and equally at fault. With soft apologies and heartfelt sorrow the girl turned to leave. Just as she was about to re-mount my vision cleared and I was struck an even fiercer blow when she turned to look once more and I recognised Georgie.

I called her name. "Sir?" she inquired and then a mask of dread fleetingly suffused her complexion before she cried "Oh" and "Oh. I didn't recognise you. What are you doing here?" and she began to gabble, in a seemingly worse state than when she thought I were injured. It seemed for all the world as though she had no recollection of who I was but was gamely attempting to hide the fact.

I put my fingers to her lips to quiet her near raving and asked simply "Georgie Lane?" She nodded her head. I gave her her own address as a question. She confirmed this too with a nod. "A crescent shaped birthmark here?" I lightly placed a finger below her ribs. She stood mute, terror and shame vying for show on her upturned face. "And this?" I asked pushing the palm of my hand between her legs and taking hold of her manhood.

"You know me." She stated simply.

"I do. But you it seems have no idea as to my identity."

My mind was awhirl. How could this be? We who had shared nights of passion, evenings of debauchery, early hours of revelry. Was she bewitched? Had she somehow lost her mind or memory? My rage had ebbed and I was left with a sadness at her plight then she seemed to come to a decision and, incredibly, she asked my name. I told her and then she began a story I still cannot fully convince myself is little more than fantasy, but which I acted upon instinctively.

She spoke with sure knowledge of times to be. Of war. Of fantastical invention, flying machines, far-speaking devices using the ether as medium, the whole world plunged not once but twice into bloody and bitter conflict, murdered Presidents, speaking pictures and machines with which to make the nations of the world a single country. These were inevitable events. Though our future, they were Georgie's history.

Imagine if you can Betsy that each and every beast, insect and bird in the whole world are dependant, in some respect or another, upon each and every other species and that each and every one of the creatures of the earth are actually physically changing their aspect with each succession of descendants. That which are inchworms today are butterflies tomorrow. The simple bulb planted today becomes the daffodil tomorrow. So it is with our children and grandchildren. They are taller, they are stronger they are as different from us as the tadpole is the frog.

In two hundred years our great grandchildren will be unrecognisable to us. In three hundred years they will be abominations.

As you are well aware, the population of our fair, young country grows apace. This growth requires greater and greater resources. It has been predicted in certain journals that before very long at all the whole population will be required to work on the land in order that we can feed and keep ourselves whole. With more and more land being used for cultivation there will be less area available to house ourselves. Worse, in the mid-west there are already whole tracts which can be farmed only every other year or two or even three years because the very earth itself has depleted.

Think how wondrous then if I tell you that there will grow naturally those cereals and plants which can be harvested not once but twice or three times in the space of the summer months and all with no loss to the ground in which they are planted! And that this will come about as a natural progression in development of these grasses and tubers.

And so I give you dire warning of coming arid wastes through reckless production and at the same time great hope through natural selection. Why then am I so excited? Because these two things are diametrical opposites. The one may happen only at the cost of the other. The bone dry wastelands are the inevitable conclusion of our rapid and happy growth. The marvellous thrice harvested corn comes at the price of war, famine, death and destruction.

Georgie Lane is (or was) a product of the second instance. She was a natural example of a world that carefully husbands its resources. A world that admits of no hunger. A place where the sex of a child is not fixed at birth but is fluid and changeable. A future time when all that we are now has never been!

Georgie Lane had been sent to destroy us.

As the sun rises, so shall it set and on the morning rise again. This is the order of things. The natural progression. Not so for Gregory Lancet.

I have mentioned, perhaps causing you some confusion Betsy, the idea of the six degrees of separation. I shall now elucidate. The conclusion of the Roundhouse, with which I began this story holds the final twist and last degree. One other of our guests that night was a certain Nancy Elliot of my acquaintance, a forebear I am given to understand of a particular inventor yet to come among us. It is she to whom I at last introduced Georgie Lane and who struck up a most convivial and desultory relationship that very night. Here was the fifth and final handshake. The immediate friendship that would seal our fate.

The medical officer here has informed me that I have a dose of the clap. A mild form and merely itchy rather than debilitating. I have declined treatment as I am in no position to seek better health after next Tuesday. The significance of this will become apparent.

In the middle of the park on that fateful day, the last for Georgie, surrounded by blossoming trees, shouting children and a grey hunter cropping peacefully at the grass she explained to me how she came to be at that event on that night.

Some 18 months ago Gregory Lancet befriended a 'lady of the night' Fraulein Giselle Wankel amongst whose clientele was a visiting Italian craftsman by the name of Cesare Pirelli whose peccadilloes included that love above others. This Cesare Pirelli had received a commission to work in Scotland for one Dougal MacHinery, a sometime engineer and Laird of Lochmannon, destined unfortunately to be the last of his line due to his aversion of 'the sulphurous pit'. A letter from Dougal introducing Georgina Lane was delivered into the hands of one Francis Hopkinson and it was he that sponsored Georgie Lane to the Roundhouse that night. I of course introduced Georgie to Nancy.

Some years later, and happily married, Nancy will give birth to a sickly child (no doubt due to the effects of the pox) who will suffer the handicap of almost total deafness and who will strive withal, in order that those suffering his same condition in its full strength, can learn to speak rather than use the animal like finger signs, he will strive his entire life to find a device whereby those unfortunates may hear. In so doing there will come about such devices of communication as will encompass the world in one community, but not before they have driven the world to the brink of disaster and forced mother nature herself to find new ways of keeping her children safe.

Do you believe me dear Betsy? I swear that every word is true and yet I have absolutely no proof of any of this save the words of a thin girl in the park. A thin, beautiful girl that may become a man at will, or something in-between, in order that she may cater to the taste of her newest lover and thereby inveigle herself into the company of her next.

After all this I may as well confound both yourself and my story to its fullest extent. How is it that a person may be in such raw and intimate contact with someone one day and be unknown to them the next? Here is the most difficult and the place at which you may consign me to madness.

Have you skipped flat stones across a pond? Across a wide stream to maybe reach the other bank. It is a silly and time-wasting effort but I'm sure you have witnessed boys attempting it. Each time that the stone dashes the water it slows before skipping on until eventually it stops and sinks. The greater the effort put into the first throw, the further the stone will skip. So it is with time travel! Three hundred years then one hundred then fifty and ten then one and 6 months then weeks then days until at last the traveller sinks into the past having tasted all those various centuries, years and days, in reverse!