Teena: A House of Ill Repute

TEENA - A HOUSE OF ILL REPUTE

by

JENNIFER JANE POPE

Teena - A House of Ill Repute
first
published in 200
2
by
Chimera Publishing.
Published as an eBook in 2011 by
Avid eBooks
, an imprint of Chimera eBooks
.

ISBN
9781780800745

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Chimera (
ki-mir
'
a, ki-
) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy
.

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w
authors
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so if you'd like our guidelines,
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re a published author of erotic fiction and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we
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This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex
.

This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this
eB
ook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright
Jennifer Jane Pope
. The right of
Jennifer Jane Pope
to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Prologue

By Christeena Felicity Spigwell-Thyme

Hey, look! They've given me proper accreditation here, and about time, too. Which, of course, is what my story is all about - time.

For those of you who haven't met me before - and to refresh the little grey cells of those who have and who might have forgotten me, shame on you - I'm a time traveller and have been one since the tender age of eighteen, back in the mid nineteen-seventies. Yes, I'm sure you can do the arithmetic and, yes, that now makes me forty-six years old, although if you met me face to face (and no, that's not the real me on the cover of the book, silly) you'd think I was only about twenty-three.

No, I haven't had a lifelong addiction to plastic surgery, either. The secret of my apparent eternal youth lies somewhere in the phenomena of time travelling, as I explained in my second book. Don't ask me how it works... no, I
can
tell you
how
it works - the result, at least - but what I can't tell you is why, and what actually goes on. The results pan out something like this. Lucky old Teena gets whisked back in time at irregular intervals, spending irregular amounts of time in the bodies of my various ancestors. So far I've spent periods of time back in the past varying from little more than a few minutes to, as far as I've been able to calculate, several weeks.

However, no matter how long I seemingly go back for, whenever I return to my present day body, only a matter of seconds, minutes at most in the extreme cases, have actually elapsed. And that's not all. If I travel back for, let's say, a total of six months in any one given year, those six months apparently get credited to my physical account. In other words, and to make this more obvious, in the past twenty-seven years I've spent what must be a total of thirty one years back in antiquity, and so not only have I not aged physically in that time, but, and I'm guessing a bit here, I've already worked up a bit of credit.

I still don't look any older than I did when I was eighteen, and am unlikely to do so, at least for the foreseeable future. Okay, yes, I
did
say you would think I was twenty-something, but I can explain that, too. For a start, I'm well above average height for a girl, which tends to add a couple of years to the image. In addition, it's gotten to be impossible for a girl to live more than a quarter of a century in this world - let alone even more than that in various older worlds - without picking up a little
je ne sais quoi
that adds to her aura and gives her a special sort of maturity that has nothing whatsoever to do with age.

But back to my time travelling, which began one evening just after I had moved into the little cottage in Rowlands Castle, which had been left to me by a great-great-great aunt none of my immediate family had ever been aware I had, but of whom I turned out to be the eldest surviving female relative. In the loft, I discovered several boxes of clothing, underwear included, which although they clearly dated from some time in the Victorian era, appeared to be as fresh and clean a
s the day they were first made.

Tall though I am, I am not exactly heavily built, and thanks to one of the corsets I dug out of my trove, I was able to squeeze myself into one of the antique dresses. I was also able to fit my feet into the bootees, which at the time I hardly gave a thought to, but which as my story unfolded, I realised was, to say the least, quite odd. Being tall I have feet that are not exactly tiny, and footwear made for a lady more than a century earlier should not have had a prayer where they were concerned. Call me thick, if you dare, but it was several weeks before I even considered this anomaly, and a while after that before the significance began dawning on me. But more of all that later, for the stage at which I left my adventure was prior to this...

Dressed in my old but new finery, I was prepared to settle into a night of relaxation, or as much relaxation as a tightly laced corset would allow, together with a bottle of wine, but whilst searching the kitchen for a corkscrew, I came across a gold pendant hidden at the back of a drawer. It was unremarkable as were the two tiny miniatures it held of a man and woman I guessed must have lived sometime at the beginning of the nineteenth century. That pendant was to prove the catalyst, and although its continued proximity was not, and is not, necessary for me to go for a jaunt in time, I remain convinced it was the initial trigger to something I cannot explain.

In the batting of an eyelid, I seemed to pass out and return to consciousness in a body that clearly was not mine, and in a time and place I quickly deduced was not my own. I had, in fact, journeyed back to some time late in eighteen thirty-nine, and the petite little blonde-haired frame in which I awoke had belonged to one Angelina Spigwell, now supposedly married to an archetypal dastard in the form of one Gregory Hacklebury, although in fact he had employed a doppelganger for the actual ceremony, as Angelina had steadfastly refused to say 'I will' and I wasn't about to gainsay that, I can tell you.

Gregory Hacklebury was a 'Sir', but he had little money, whereas Angelina had shed-loads of the stuff, all of which, by the laws of the day, would have become his upon their marriage. What would then have become of poor Angelina was anybody's guess, but to judge from her, and my, experiences in the short space of time following the mock wedding, I didn't think either of us wanted to be around to find out.

However, getting clear of Hacklebury was easier said than done, for if he was a bad'un, his so-called maid and housekeeper, Megan Crowthorne, was even worse. 'Mad Meg', as I thought of her, had her own designs on either Hacklebury or the estate he was after. She was determined to ensure that whilst he might have 'married' Angelina, he would not think of her as any sort of real wife. Rather, Meg was cunningly reducing Angelina,
me
, to the status of an animal, lacing me into an awful leather dog costume complete with snout and ears, and forcing me to walk around on all fours with cunning extensions inside the sleeves holding my forearms and paws fashioned at the end of each limb.

I was forced to live in a specially built stable-come-kennel in the grounds, and was watched over by a huge Viking type named Erik (I kid you not) whose chief duties - other than to make sure I didn't escape and that I was adequately fed and watered - consisted of walking me, whipping me and screwing me, the latter activity courtesy of just about the biggest rogering implement I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.

Now, I'm ashamed to say that, despite my predicament, I enjoyed Erik's dedication to that latter duty, initially blaming Angelina's body for betraying me, but gradually coming to realise the fault actually lay somewhere inside me, as Angelina herself had a tendency towards her own sex rather than the male persuasion. She had grown up in India with a native serving girl, Indira, who became her lover, but whom Hacklebury sold off to a bunch of soldiers heading back to the sub-continent.

Meanwhile, back in my own time during the periods when I reverted to my then present, I met up with Anne-Marie and her sort of stepbrother, Andy. They were an odd couple in every sense of the word. She was heavily into bondage scenarios with men and women alike, and he was just as heavily into dressing as a female, a role in which he was more than convincing as the sluttish Andrea.

Teena - or Teenie, as they preferred to call me - quickly became inveigled into their little game-playing, whilst at the same time the pair set about helping me trace my ancestral line back in time to see if I really was a descendant of the dreadful Hacklebury, or whether perhaps some other person may have fathered Angelina's eventual offspring, from which I was now certain I was descended. To further complicate matters, it seemed Anne-Marie was a Hacklebury descendant, though whether from the same Hacklebury or a different one we could not at first be sure. A visit to some of her distant cousins made me suspect she was indeed come down the line from the Gregory version, which I assumed quite probably accounted for most, if not all, of her curious sexual predilections, which she seemed determined to introduce me to at a breathtaking rate.

Coincidence? Fate? Either, both, or neither? Make up your own mind, for the gods do move in ways mysterious, and although I've met a good few historical figures during the course of my travels, I've yet to encounter a genuine deity face to face, so I make no claim to knowing myself either way. However, there was definitely more than a hint of good fortune in forming my new friendships, for Andy, having claimed to have fallen in love with me in nineteen seventy-five, suddenly turned up in eighteen thirty-nine in the body of the aforementioned Indira, and thanks to his/her intervention, we were both able to affect an escape, leaving a seething Megan trapped inside the dog suit and taking Erik with us at pistol point to drive the carriage in which we fled.

The final details of our getaway remain a mystery to me, other than snippets I gleaned from Erik later, for as we drove towards the gate, both Andy and myself found ourselves back in the present, doing what it was we had been doing at the moment we time-hopped. I'll leave you to guess what that was, reader...

And that was where we left things at the end of my last volume, but it was not how the story was going to leave me, nor me it, of that you can be as certain as I was then myself. There was unfinished business to be resolved, both in the past and in the present, and neither I nor the mysterious power transporting me back and forth in time was going to be satisfied until a resolution was achieved.

Believe it or not, as I lay back on the bed, perspiring and exhausted, I
wanted
to go back again. No, I
needed
to go back again, for my researches in my own time had more or less ground to a halt and I knew the answers to all my questions, all those answers which I knew I
had
to have, lay back in the first half of the previous century.

In nineteen seventy-five, during the space of a few short weeks, I had gone from being an arguably mature ex-sixth former to what most people would regard as a totally amoral slut, and I couldn't lay all the blame for that at Anne-Marie and Andrea's feet, any more than I suspected it was anything for which I was wholly or consciously to blame. Either it was something genetic, or else it was something that had lain dormant through the decades and re-emerged in me to help steel me for the rigours I would have to endure in order to try to save Angelina. Or maybe it wasn't any of that and maybe we were all just bad at heart. Maybe there was nothing I could do to help Angelina, yet maybe there was and I had actually already done it. That's one of those things about every time travelling story I've ever read - when the time traveller goes back, is it merely to act out something he or she has already done, or is it to change the course of history?

If I went back and killed Hacklebury, would that mean I would then cease to exist back in my own time, assuming he had fathered the original child? If he hadn't, and I killed whoever was supposed to father it, would that alter things and kill off the line from which I was ultimately descended?

I lay back on the bed, closed my eyes and gently stroked Andy's naked shoulder. How the hell was I supposed to know any of the answers? I didn't even understand most of the questions. And then there were a lot of other things I wasn't even close to understanding and coming to believe I never would.