The Don't-Do List Read online



  The Don’t-Do List

  (Letters with Intent - Book 1)

  by

  Rebecca Milton

  ***

  Copyright 2015 - All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and locations portrayed in this book and the names herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional. - From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. No responsibility or liability is assumed by the Publisher for any injury, damage or financial loss sustained to persons or property from the use of this information, personal or otherwise, either directly or indirectly. While every effort has been made to ensure reliability and accuracy of the information within, all liability, negligence or otherwise, from any use, misuse or abuse of the operation of any methods, strategies, instructions or ideas contained in the material herein, is the sole responsibility of the reader. Any copyrights not held by publisher are owned by their respective authors. All information is generalized, presented for informational purposes only and presented "as is" without warranty or guarantee of any kind. All trademarks and brands referred to in this book are for illustrative purposes only, are the property of their respective owners and not affiliated with this publication in any way. Any trademarks are being used without permission, and the publication of the trademark is not authorized by, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owner.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  The Don’t-Do List

  The Don’t-Do List

  My father made sure I was far more educated than any other woman in the county. This included women my own age and those who were much, much older. He instilled in me a curiosity about all manner of life. He built in me an appetite for literature, art, dance and the theater. He filled me with a strong working understanding of politics, business, and philosophy. He gave me a clear understanding of class and situation. He carved in me an awareness of the need to be kind and caring to all God’ creatures. When he died, the last thing he left me was... incredibly wealthy.

  My mother left me with grace, beauty, a keen understanding of a woman’s place in the world, the guile and wit to circumvent that place while bruising no one. When she died, she left me with a deep understanding of the power of love and a yet untapped passion for sex.

  My parents loved each other to the very end. I don’t say this with the usual kind of blind romanticism usually found in girls my age. I state it as a fact. They loved each other until the end. I say this because they died together, their hearts giving out due to exhaustion, in the middle of coitus. I found them that morning, my father’s rigor-mortis-stiffened member still deep inside my mother, and both of them with the most serene, pleasurable expressions on their faces.

  When I walked into their bedchamber that morning – my parents, unlike most couples of our class, still shared a bed every night – I was surprised they were still in bed, apparently asleep. When I spoke to them, they did not respond, nor did they react when I shook them. I knew then that they were dead. I was shocked and grieved.

  When, upon closer examination, I realized that they had died in coitus, I was thrilled, and I laughed for quite some time. I laughed and smiled all during the church service, through the funeral, and I was only momentarily sad when they put their coffins in the earth, and I realized that they had been separated. Unable, I thought, to be locked in passion again. Yet, when the good Reverend Talbot spoke of how they would live in heaven as they had lived on earth, together and free, I laughed again. I imagined Mother, her skirts up, bent over, grasping the bars of the pearly gates while my father stood behind her.

  “When your father takes me from behind,” my mother was fond of telling me, “I often fear the level of pleasure will be just too much and I will die.” She would then pause, sip her tea and look dreamily into the distance. “Oh, but what a way to go,” she would say and we would laugh and laugh.

  ***

  I was eighteen when my parents humped their way off this mortal coil. A beautiful, intelligent and remarkably wealthy woman, my Uncle Nestor claimed, but also vulnerable and in need of a guiding hand. Nestor was my father’s younger and only sibling. He was smart, wealthy, good in business and a pillar of the community. However, he was a crashingly dull prude. When I told him how my parents had passed into the Great Beyond, he fainted. When I met him before the funeral, he handed me a piece of rolled up parchment.

  “What is this, Dear Uncle,” I said. He gestured for me to unroll it and read it. He placed a scented handkerchief over his nose and mouth while I did. On the parchment was written, in his precise hand, a list of over six hundred words. Male and female body parts. Sexual positions and bawdy words. The list was quite stunning in its scope. I had no idea what it meant or why he had given it to me. I suddenly wondered if my bachelor uncle was trying to... woo me.

  “Uncle,” I said, “is this a list of suggestions? Is this a list of things that you feel you and I should do together?” He spun on me and his jaw dropped in horror.

  “I am not averse to the idea,” I said, understanding now that wooing was not the case and deciding to tease him a little, “but you’ll have to be patient with me and explain what some of these things are.” He gasped and pressed his handkerchief harder to his face. “For instance,” I continued, “you’ll have to tell me what this is...” and pointed to one of the more unfamiliar words.

  At that, he fainted dead away. He was revived by Doctor Clemens and the funeral went on. Later, back at the house, the mourners and friends had gathered as they usually did after a funeral. At one point in the evening, Uncle Nestor cornered me in the library.

  “The list, dear niece,” he whispered, “is a list of words you must never, ever utter in my presence. Indeed,” he continued, “I would think it best that a person of your age, being a member of the tender sex, not even think about any of the words on that list.” He nodded. “For your own good.” He was a dear man, and I loved him very much. I knew he was only looking out for my best interests. I had teased him enough.

  “You are very wise, dear Uncle, and I will familiarize myself with the list so that I may avoid any mistake of accidentally shocking you. Then I will lock it away in a trunk and never look upon it again.” His face lit up with gratitude, and he gave me a warm, if not obviously chaste, embrace.

  As the evening wound down, guests began to leave, heading for their own homes. The servants straightened the manor and cleared away all remnants of the party. I went upstairs and sat on the edge of my parents’ bed. I missed them a great deal, and I felt quite alone. Still, I could not be sad. I knew that a love as strong as theirs would transcend death and last for all eternity. I wondered if I would ever find such a love.

  ***

  The days rolled by, and I kept my father’s investments thriving. His business partners eventually softened to the idea of a woman having a voice, and they grew to trust and respect me. I was fine. I didn’t find myself being taken advantage of as Uncle Nestor had warned. I conducted business, ran the manor, paid the bills, and lived a very quiet, simple life. Uncle Nestor came once or twice a week to check on me, have dinner, and lecture me about the duties of a wealthy woman.

  On the occasional Sunday, I allowed him to drag me to church and stood by him as he belted out hymns with much gusto and many missed notes. On those Sunday outings, he often was rather… surprised… when we met up with a fine, young, single man at church. He would introduce me and then, after the service, would encourage the young man to walk me home. His matchmaking attempts were as subtle as his shrieking tenor voice, but I appreciated his efforts.

  “My old aching legs,” he would say. “I would be greatly in your debt, young sir if you’d accompany my niece back to her splendid, but lonely, manor.” The men he happened upon and set on me were always very kind, very polite, but as frightfully dull as dear Uncle Nestor himself.

  To amuse myself on these walks I would often pepper the conversations with words from the forbidden list that I promised my dear Uncle never to glance at, but that I actually studied and memorized every night. I truly did not know what half the words on the list meant. I would judge their severity by the amount of stuttering they would cause in my companions.

  When the poor lad chosen to walk me home heard a particularly interesting word and passed out, I would put a small check mark by that word on the list when I got home. And so it went. Uncle Nestor taking care of me, setting me up with men of good marriageable stock, and me either shocking them to tears, or leaving them passed out in the brambles and thickets that lined the path on the walk home from church.

  As for the list, it became my constant obsession. I read it
over at night in my chamber after Maggie, my handmaiden, had undressed me and tucked me into bed. I would pull the list from a small, locked box in my night table, light a candle, and read it over. The words I did know, such as the male and female body parts, I quickly memorized and cast aside. But other words phrases fascinated me and filled me with wonder.

  But sadly, these were the times when I missed my mother most. She was always willing to speak honestly about sex with me, but I had never been that curious. I certainly had never had such a tantalizing list before, and now it was too late.

  There was no one I trusted enough to let my hair down and get a little naughty with. I had to maintain an air of composure around the servants, and Uncle Nestor was of no use to me. Often, in the summer, if he caught a direct glimpse of a woman’s bosom, he would turn pale and fall into the nearest body of water. The list caused me to burn with a desire to know and to understand. Sadly, I had no teacher.

  ***

  The winter was quiet and nice. Christmastime I spent with Nestor and various cousins twice, sometimes three times removed. The boys were all very much like Nestor, blushing and coughing if I came too close, and covering their laps with blankets and unable to stand if I sat beside them and happened to touch them in any way. The girls all seemed to have one foot in the nunnery and one foot in the grave. I doubted if any of them had even seen themselves naked. That, to me, seemed a shame.

  In my time alone I had discovered that I looked very much forward to my evening bath. Candles burning, a hot tub, and me, all alone with my thoughts and secret wonders. Before I would bathe, I had taken to standing in front of the glass and looking at my body. My mother had always taught me that your body was a gift, and one shouldn’t be ashamed of it. I certainly wasn’t ashamed of mine.

  My breasts were perky and plump. My hips were smooth and not too wide. My bottom had a lovely curve to it, with just enough flesh to make it like the paintings of angels I had often admired in the museum.

  All in all, I was quite pleased with my body, and I was certain I would be able to pleasure a man with it. If only I knew what to do.

  ***

  The days went by like this for many months. I conducted business, looked after the affairs of the manor, made money, visited with Uncle Nestor, helped the poor, and attended church. All was well, but the list was still there, still unsolved. My curiosity burned.

  One evening after my evening bath, I was still very restless. I could not sleep. The air was warm, and the moon was full. It bathed my room in crystal blue light that refused to allow me sleep. I rose, put on my robe, and wandered down the stairs. I was heading toward the kitchen, thinking perhaps a snack would satisfy me, when I heard a very strange sound. A grunting and moaning. It sounded like animals, and it was coming from my late father’s study. I quietly crept to the door and opened it ever so slightly.

  I was shocked by the sight. Maggie, her skirts up around her neck, was on her back. Jack Latham, the country clerk, his pants around his ankles, seemed to be wrestling with her. I watched for a moment and realized they were engaged in coitus. My mother and father both had spoken freely of this but, I suddenly realized, I had never witnessed the act in full motion before. I watched for a moment, feeling flushed and excited. I was about to turn away, to leave them to their privacy when an idea struck me. I took a breath and burst into the study.

  “What on earth is going on here?” I shouted at them. “How dare you defile my dear, dead father’s sofa in that way?” Maggie shoved Mr. Latham off her, and he tumbled to the floor, grabbing at his trousers, doing his best to hide himself. Maggie pulled her skirts down and stood, apologizing profusely.

  “I am quite surprised by you, Maggie,” I said. “Kindly see Mr. Latham out and then come to my chamber.” She curtsied, and I went to my room. This was perfect, I thought. Maggie would be just the teacher I needed. I went into my room unlocked the box, withdrew the list, and waited for Maggie to arrive. After some moments, I heard her clumping quickly up the stairs. She knocked on my door; I told her to enter, and she stood, hands behind her back, head bowed, waiting, I would imagine, to be dismissed.

  Maggie was a sweet girl. We had grown up together. Her mother had been my mother’s handmaiden, and when Maggie’s mother died in a terrible carriage accident, my father and mother took her in and set her to work as my handmaid. We were very close and, if it hadn’t been for the class difference, I imagine we would have been the best of friends.

  She was roughly my age, and quite beautiful with long red hair and a fine, curved figure. When we younger and would walk to town together, the sons of farmers, workers, carpenters and the like, would often stop and say hello to her with a familiar tone. To me, they were respectful. To Maggie, they were covetous.

  “I am truly sorry for that,” she would say, her tone somber and frightened. “I can have my thing packed and be out of here in the morning.” She looked at me, and I stared at her with my most stern countenance. She was visibly shaking. It felt cruel, but then I could carry the charade no further.

  “Oh, stop,” I said to her. “I’m not angry and I am certainly not going to dismiss you.”

  “You’re not?” she asked, truly surprised. “What are you going to do?” Perhaps she expected I would have her beaten or possibly publicly shamed.

  “I, dear Maggie,” I said, “am going to employ you as a teacher.” She had no idea what I meant, so I held out the list for her to read. “Do you know what these things are?” She took the list and slowly read it. Then I saw her blush, and she started to giggle almost uncontrollably.

  “Yes, I do, ma'am,” she said. “Fact is, most of them I have done myself.”

  “Perfect,” I cried and clapped.

  “Do you want me to explain to you what they mean?” she asked.

  “Better than that. I want you to show me. With Mr. Latham.”

  ***

  And so, my lessons began. I would choose one or two things from the list, things that Maggie best knew how to do. Apart from acts that required farm animals, she knew most all of the list. She would then bring Mr. Latham into the study, I would hide in the closet, and would watch her do the acts that I had chosen. Later, she would answer my questions and give me hints, but most of all, she would tell me how it felt. At Maggie’s insistence, she started with the simplest things. Every few nights Mr. Latham would arrive, and Maggie would go to work on him. I was anxious and wanted to learn as much as I could as fast as I could.

  “Why can’t you bring Mr. Latham every night?” I asked finally, growing tired of the lengthy times between my lessons.

  “Because,” she said with a smile, “we don’t want to kill Mr. Latham, now do we?” I thought of my dear parents and what my mother had said to me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It seems like it might be a wonderful way to go.” At that, Maggie burst out laughing.

  ***

  The nights passed, and I was checking all the items off the list. So many things I had learned. On and on the months rolled by, and I became more knowledgeable about the list. However, some things didn’t appeal to me at all.

  “Well,” Maggie said after one session with Mr. Latham, demonstrating a variation of the position my mother said she loved so much, “I’m not too fond of it myself, but once in a while is alright. The boys seem to like it, so I save it for special days. You know… Birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing.”

  “Right,” I said, “only take it in the bum on special days.” We laughed ourselves silly. After many months and many, many late night discussions, the list was complete. I had placed a check mark beside all the terms I now understood. We sat on the bed and looked the list over. Maggie was quite proud, and I was very thankful.

  “You know,” she said, “it occurs to me that your upstanding Uncle Nestor is a bit of a pervert to have written this type of list.” This sent us into peals of laughter.

  ***

  The next night, Maggie came into my room after I had gotten out of the bath. She told me that it was time I let a man pleasure me. She was right. All this watching and learning had built up in me an incredible desire to touch a man and feel what it was like to do some of the things on the list.