In the year eighteen hundred and twelve, the Industrial Revolution was blooming and booming all around much of Europe, leaving pockets of sophistication and grandeur wherever you cared to look. London was at the pinnacle of this, it was the city where society's crème de la crème liked to gather. A grand display of wealth and class, all wrapped up neatly within the confines of the Georgian era; a time period that so dearly loved its traditions and etiquette.

Among the whispered secrets exchanged between mother and daughter was a practice understood by those in the era, a bedtime ritual just as common as reading a bedtime story to ease off sleep. It was a small, insignificant thing, barely mentioned beyond the confines of their home. For the young girls of elegant families, their mothers had a surprisingly soft touch, a hand that veered into the territory of pleasure under the silk nightgowns. Stranger still was the bonding that followed, a strange shift from the traditional mother-daughter dynamics. An exercise in sensitivity and love, the pair would take turns tasting of each other's most intimate places.

There was a comfortable understanding of this peculiar practice, an odd sense of normality that certainly wasn't shared by members of the lower class. Within the tall, grand houses of London, mothers and daughters would often indulge in this habitual way of care, a tapestry of intimacy woven into the fabric of their daily lives.

For Marianne Beaumont, an elegant woman of high society, the custom was completely natural. Her mother had done the same for her, as had her grandmother. It was a maternal covenant of sorts, a sacred understanding passed down through the generations. Thus, as the darkness cast its undisturbed calm over the busy streets of London, she would quietly make her way into her daughter's room, under the guise of putting her to bed.

Tonight was no different, her feet silent on the cold floors as she crept inside. Even in the dark she recognized each corner, each chair placed about the room like an old friend.

Marianne approached her daughter's bed, the white linens soft beneath her fingertips. The covers were pulled aside, ready to welcome the gentle caresses she would soon offer her daughter. Marianne lowered herself, slipping underneath the blanket and settling into the welcoming embrace of her child's soft body.

Their closeness was a comfort, both intimate and familiar. There was nothing out of place, nothing but their usual routine. Tonight's objective was no different. "Beatrice," Marianne whispered, her lips brushing against her daughter's ear. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Shall I help you sleep?"

"If you wish, Mother."

"I do wish it, my darling."

Marianne gently pushed a hand downwards, finding the hem of Beatrice's nightgown. It was already bunched up, exposing the skin of her inner thighs. They were soft to the touch, her legs warm under the nightgown. Marianne ran a finger along her daughter's inner thigh, drawing a small moan from the young girl.

"Shhhh, my darling, your father will hear you."

"Forgive me, Mother."

Marianne continued