Confessions of an English Maid (1937)

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Confessions
of an
English Maid

by

Jessie.

London

1937

CHAPTER 1
During the course of the years in which I have been more or less closely
associated with other prostitutes I have frequently listened to
explanations as to just what this one or that owed her degradation; the
particular villainy to which she attributed her advent into a life of
shame. The usual story is one of seduction by a lover under the
inevitable extenuating circumstance of “before I really knew
anything,” with the occasional variation, “he put something in my
drink, and when I came too…” or, “he was stronger than I was and I
couldn’t do anything.” In these glib stories, in which none but the
inconsequential details vary, the man is always to blame and the girl is
never a willing accomplice. She is always, by artifice, force or
deception, and subsequent abandonment, the victim of some man’s
depravity.
I confess that I have listened to these tales and even witnessed a few
tears of self-pity, with a certain amount of scepticism. In thinking back
over my own life I can find nothing which would serve as a valid
excuse to shift upon somebody else the responsibility of my own
condition, nor can I in justice accuse any man of having instigated my
moral degradation, although the number of those who have taken
advantage of my voluntary delinquency is legion. True, were I to
hypocritically search for some contributing factor with which to justify
myself in my own mind or in the minds of others, I might place some
blame upon the environment under which I was raised as a c***d, yet, a
conscientious analysis of my subsequent life leads me to no other
conclusion than that had these conditions been entirely normal I
would still, just as water seeks its level, have drifted into a life
analogous to that in which you find me.
I do not believe that character is made by environment or training. I
am something of a fatalist and it is my conviction that the seeds of
goodness or badness, kindness or malevolence, virtue or viciousness,
are implanted in the soul right from the beginning, and while some
slight modifications either for better or for worse may be possible
under varying circumstances, the net result will not be greatly
changed.
In my c***dhood days I knew two brothers, sons of affluent parents
highly respected in the community. These two boys were raised under
the most favourable home and moral environment possible to imagine.
The elder, always the personification of honour and circumspection,
occupies a position of trust high in the affairs of the nation. The
younger c***d of the same parents, raised under exactly the same
conditions and influences, early in life manifested all the
characteristics of an irresponsible nature and is today being sought for
his participation in a robbery which culminated in murder. I know of
other such instances.
I was seduced by no man, but I managed to get rid of my maidenhead
before I was twelve years old. By the time I was f******n I had been
fucked by a dozen young fellows and several older men. I wasn’t
infatuated or deceived or coerced. I let them fuck me because it felt
nice, because I liked it, and even the fact that shillings and even larger
sums of money could be easily and pleasantly acquired didn’t play
any very important part in my complacency.
I was eight and Rene, my foster brother, ten when mutual curiosity
about each other’s little sexual attributes first began to take the form
of c***d efforts to unravel Nature’s mysteries. These efforts, which at
first did not pass much beyond the observational stage, with an
occasional touching and fingering, were inspired more by curiosity
than sexual promptings; nevertheless, we sensed more elements of
forbidden fruit and exercised considerable caution in hiding ourselves
when the impulse was upon us to gratify our curiosity.
Under the roof of our home was an attic which was used as a sort of
storeroom for discarded furniture and other odds and ends. Rene and I
converted it into a species of playhouse.

Access to this attic was gained by a steep and narrow stairway
enclosed between dark walls, and our parents rarely climbed these
stairs, and would have given us ample warning by their footsteps had it
occurred to them to do so; we felt reasonably secure, and always
repaired to this obscure hideaway when the mood to do something
naughty was upon us.
Mamma Agnes was not my real mother. My own mother had died
when I was four years old. With the practical philosophy of a widower
left with a small c***d on his hands, Papa lost no time in acquiring a
new wife, and in less than six months I had a mamma and a stepbrother
two years older than myself.
I lay neither censure nor praise at the feet of Mamma Agnes. She was
kind to me in an indifferent way and I believe she cared as much for
me as she did for her own c***d, Rene. She was simply not the maternal
type, and though she accepted the material obligations which our
presence represented uncomplainingly and kept us clean and well fed,
there existed an almost complete absence of anything in the nature of
moral or spiritual upbringing. We were punished occasionally, but
only when our misbehaviour constituted an annoyance to others.
For two years Rene and I slept in the same bed. When I was about six I
remember hearing Papa tell Mamma Agnes that we were too big to be
sleeping together. Mamma Agnes made some protest which I didn’t
understand, but the next night a bed was arranged for Rene in another
room and thereafter we slept apart. I missed feeling Rene’s warm little
body close to mine in the night and wanted to know why we were not
to sleep together anymore. Mamma Agnes made an evasive
explanation. “It isn’t nice for boys and girls to sleep together,” was the
tactless reply which only served to kindle the restless fires of curiosity.
During the next year or two some light, still of an obscure nature, was
thrown on the subject by other c***dren who were not adverse to
sharing their knowledge with us.

I was not supposed to see Rene’s dickey, and he likewise was not
supposed to see my cunny. This was the sum and substance, apparently,
of the incomprehensive order of things which had abruptly terminated
our bed fellowship. And immediately we both began to feel the itch to
see what we were not supposed to see, and to which we had paid but
scant attention when the opportunity had been freely at hand and unforbidden.
The juvenile soul thirsts for knowledge-of a certain kind. What was
the real basis of all this sly mystery about little boys’ dickies and little
girls’ cunnies? “A boy puts his dickey in a girl’s cunny,” said one. “That’s
the way you get babies, only you can’t have a baby until you’re
married.” “When you rub your cunny it gives you a nice feeling,” said
another.
In the security of our attic hideaway Rene and I diligently sought the
answer to the mystery. The erstwhile playroom was converted into a
juvenile brothel. We dragged an ancient mattress from behind an
accumulation of wrecked furniture and laid it out on the floor. I
straddled out on this mattress with my legs apart while Rene looked
and fingered until his curiosity was temporarily satisfied and I was
compensated by being permitted to look at and squeeze his little
dickey. It was a source of never-ending wonder to watch it go through
its erotic evolutions, expanding, swelling, hardening, until it projected
stiffly and rigidly forward. I tried to see whether, by holding it tightly
in my fist, I could prevent it from getting big, but in my grasp it seemed
to grow even faster, easily displacing my clenched fingers and causing
me curious, shivery sensations.
Time and time again we tried to effect actual copulation, but there was
something amiss, and the failure puzzled us. The playing, looking and
fingering were pleasant, but there was something lacking, something
sweet, something elusive which we sensed was close at hand but which
still eluded us.

Picture to yourself a group of twenty happy, carefree youngsters of
both sexes, ages ranging from eight to twelve, their strident little
voices ringing out in careless abandon as they pursue their innocent
amusements, converting a refuse-strewn lot into an enchanted
fairyland. Even the bloated loafers and derelicts of the street who cast
a casual glance at the little innocents must not fail to feel a twinge of
sentimentality.
London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lay-dee.
But, hark! There is more to the song. The shriller masculine voices take
the ascendancy, and little girls are heard only in a confusion of
laughter and giggling.
Madge and Jerry are having a suck,
Having a suck, having a suck,
Madge and Jerry are having a suck,
My fair lay-dee.
After the suck they’ll have a fuck,
Oh, what luck, oh, what luck,
After the suck, they’ll have a fuck,
My fair lay-dee.
Out of a house whose open windows are in close proximity to the
merrymakers bursts an old Irish woman, brandishing a broom, her
wrinkled face suffused with rage.
“Git out o’here ye narsty little spalpeens or I’ll swab yer dirty, stinkin’
mouths fer ye, blarsted little imps o’Satan!” she screams as twenty pair
of feet fly in twenty different directions under the menace of the
broom in the hands of the scandalized old beldam.

When I was about eleven, Pap’s earning capacity was so reduced by
drunkenness that Mamma Agnes was obliged to take in a boarder. The
best room of the house, the one which had formerly served as a parlour,
was converted to the purpose and rented to a Mr. Peters.
Mr. Peters, a watchmaker by occupation, was a gentleman of forty-five
or thereabouts who radiated jollity and good nature and who
professed a great love for c***dren. He took an immediate fancy to me
and soon pennies and farthings began coming my way in an
abundance I had never before known. Mr. Peters constantly called on
me to run trifling errands for him, a package of fags, a penny paper, a
bottle of ale, and these small services were invariably rewarded with
some fulsome compliment, an affectionate pat on the cheek and a coin
of modest denomination.
As our friendship progressed, his amiable affection took the form of
playful caresses, squeezings, and pettings. This did not trouble me and I
was observant enough to note that the affectionate overtures were
more pronounced and subsequently more remunerative when we were
alone. So I was soon watching for opportunities to be near him when no
one else was around, especially when Mamma Agnes was out with her
shopping basket.
On such occasions he took me in his lap and as his hands roved
ceaselessly over my body he filled my ears with a running fire of
pleasant flattery. My legs seemed to be the principal objects of his
admiration and as he pinched and squeezed them playfully to
emphasize his words, his good-natured, florid face would become still
more florid and little beads of perspiration would appear on his
forehead.
One day Mr. Peters surprised me with the following observation:
“Well, bless me, if our little Jessie isn’t getting prettier and prettier
every day. Such legs… such legs. Do you know,” he continued, as he
passed his hands appraisingly down over my hips and thighs, “I have a
suspicion that you aren’t really a girl at all. Girls don’t have such fine
legs as these. I’ll bet you’re a boy instead of a girl.”
“Boys don’t wear dresses or have long hair,” I exclaimed.
“A-a-a-h!” he answered, with a knowing look, shaking his finger
sceptically in my face, “that could be just to fool people! A boy could
wear dresses and let his hair grow long. Yes…” he mused abstractedly,
“the more I think about it, the more I believe you’re really a boy
dressed in girl’s clothes.
“I am so a girl!” I protested indignantly.
“I’ve had my suspicions for a long time,” he continued, ignoring my
protestations. “Tell you what,” he added confidentially, “I’ll lay you a
shilling you’re really a boy!”
“Very well!” I exclaimed, excitedly. “You can ask Mamma Agnes!”
“Oh, no!” he objected hastily. “She’s not here now and besides she
might be on your side and say you’re a girl anyway.”
“Well, who are you going to ask?”
“Hum-m-m-m-m,” he murmured, pausing in thoughtful meditation.
“There ought to be some way we could settle the bet without asking
anybody.”
I waited expectantly.
“Ha! I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, as a happy solution of the perplexing
problem suddenly occurred to him. “But remember now, if I win you
must pay me the next shilling you get! I’ve got mine right here now to
pay you if I lose!” And he fished a shiny new shilling from his pocket
and displayed it before my eyes.
“Yes, yes!” I answered eagerly. “I’ll pay you if I lose! The very next
shilling I get! How are you going to tell?”
“Why, that’s easy,” he replied. “Funny we didn’t think of it at first. Boys
have a… ah… a little sort of dangle between their legs… right there… and
girls haven’t any. Now all you have to do is just unfasten your panties
and we’ll take a peek. And remember, if you’ve got a dangle, like I
think you have, you must pay me the next shilling you get. I’ll trust you
for it!”
Although I was momentarily confounded by this bizarre but quite
obvious method of resolving the question, my eagerness to prove the
injustice of his accusation, coupled with the prospect of so easily
gaining a shilling, outweighed any small scruples I may have felt
about exposing my cunny to him, and without a word I raised my short
dress, unfastened my panties and pulled them down low enough to
reveal the deciding factor between femininity and masculinity.
Somewhat to my surprise Mr. Peters’ doubts were not immediately
dispelled. His flushed face took on a deeper hue and he seemed to be
having some difficulty in speaking. He suggested that I remove my
panties entirely so he could see better and when this was done it was
necessary for him to make a most thorough inspection before he was
finally convinced that I didn’t have a dangle hidden between my
thighs.
After quite a lengthy examination, during which he seemed almost on
the point of suffocation as his fingers lingered about my cunny,
pressing, feeling, exploring, he sighed deeply and reluctantly
conceded his defeat, confessing himself in error. My sex was
vindicated, established and proved beyond any reasonable question
and his repentant sorrow at having doubted it resulted in an extra
shilling in addition to the one originally posted.
When Rene came home I jubilantly displayed the two pieces of silver,
explained their origin and told him how Mr. Peters had even thought I

might have a dangle tucked up inside my cunny. My account of the
incident seemed to make him restive and a few minutes later he
suggested that we go up to the attic to play.
The truth was that Mr. Peters’ insistent feeling and fingering had left
me with an odd sort of itching in my cunny. It felt excessively moist and
hot, and I agreed to Rene’s suggestion with alacrity. We slipped
upstairs and, following our usual routine, I took off my panties and lay
down on my back on the old mattress with my knees up and widely
apart while Rene nudged and punched at me with his stiff little pintle.
His erratic movements frequently brought the tip against the upper
part of my cunny and each time it pressed or rubbed against a certain
spot I felt an agreeable tremor. To capture this elusive sweetness I
reached down and, taking his dickey in my fingers, I held it against the
sensitive spot. There was a little bump of flesh there which swelled and
twitched and instinctively I rubbed the end of his dickey against it.
The pleasant feeling again permeated the whole lower part of my
body, sending such a delicious radiation surging through my nerves
that I trembled violently. The sensation culminated with a sudden
burst of delight which caused me to moan and gasp in ecstasy. I had
experienced my first real orgasm.
I had always loved and admired my foster brother Rene. He was
handsomer than most boys. He had beautiful dark brown curly hair
and his skin was white and smooth. When he effected my first orgasm
something was awakened in me which changed the affection to
complete adoration. I do not think I have ever loved anyone more, or
even as much as I loved Rene.
I gave him one of the shillings I had won so easily, and as I continued to
expiate on Mr. Peters’ supreme ignorance, he threw me a pitying look
and exclaimed:
“Are you balmy? He knew you were a girl! He just wanted to get to
look at your cunny.”
The light dawned on me, but the two shillings dimmed any feeling of
chagrin, and even a hazy thought of future exploitation half-formed
itself in my mind. I had long since sensed the fact that Mr. Peters’
interest in me was rather more than casual. If he had given me the two
shillings just to look at my cunny, maybe he might want to look at it
again sometime.
There was probably something in my eyes which betrayed this
expectation to Mr. Peters, for when I again had an opportunity to slip
into his room, he arose hastily and snapped the catch on the door.
Returning to his chair he drew me between his knees and as I stood
there he passed his hands caressingly down over my body from my
armpits to my knees, and when they ascended they were under my
dress instead of outside. He stroked my bare thighs above the tops of
my stockings and all the while a ceaseless flow of words fell from his
lips as though with this he sought to distract my attention from the
movement of his hands.
“Well, well, well, who’s here but pretty little Jessie, come to cheer up
poor old lonely Peters. My sweet little cabbage. She’s lonely, too.
Mamma Agnes is gone and Jessie’s all alone in the big house… isn’t she…
?” He paused, waiting for my nodded confirmation. “Well, well, well.
We’ll have a nice little chat in here all by ourselves.”
His hands had worked up inside the loose legs of my panties and his
fingers were squeezing the cheeks of my bottom.
“Such a pretty, clever little girl… such legs… ‘
He withdrew his hands after a final affectionate squeeze and raised
them to the elastic band which sustained my panties about my waist,
and in a moment I felt them being slipped down over my hips.
I waited expectantly.

When the panties were down and hanging loosely about my knees, Mr.
Peters put an arm around me, drew me closer, and the next instant his
hand was cupped over my cunny. This manoeuvre surprised me
somewhat, for I supposed he intended to look at it again. But no,
something different was going to happen. The hand pressed over my
cunny began to move with a gentle grinding motion, and almost at
once those delicious feelings which the tip of Rene’s dickey had
previously evoked began again. Involuntarily, I glanced toward Mr.
Peters’ lap. Along the inside length of his trouser leg was an enormous
swelling.
As I fixed my astonished gaze on it I could see the cloth jerking under
the spasmodic expansions and contractions underneath. But the
rapidly increasing intensity of the pleasurable sensations which were
now tingling through my body under Mr. Peters’ manipulations soon
caused me to forget everything else. As the climax approached my
knees began to tremble and when it reached its zenith, releasing those
indescribably delicious thrills to go shooting through my body, I
swayed dizzily. Mr. Peters was still talking, but I no longer knew what
he was saying.
When Rene came home I had another shilling to show him. He listened
attentively to my account of just what had happened and wanted me
to show him exactly what Mr. Peters had done to me. I took off my
panties and placed his hand in the same position in which Mr. Peters
had held his. Although the contact of Rene’s soft little hand was much
more agreeable than Mr. Peters’ hard and calloused palm, my sexual
orgasm, probably exhausted by the thorough masturbating I had
undergone, refused to respond to Rene’s efforts.
However, his own emotions were aroused by the pantomime and,
yielding to his command, I lay down on the mattress and let him
straddle me while he nuzzled and poked at my cunny with his little
cock. I took it in my fingers to press it against the spot which was most
responsive to its touch and it was while holding it thus that Rene’s
movements suddenly became more precipitate.

“Squeeze it tight!” he gasped.
I turned my eyes toward his face. It was strained and tense and his
breath was short and panting. Something of his emotion infected me
and prompted quite by instinct, I clutched his stiff little dickey tighter
and began to work it with my fingers. It was no longer even in contact
with my cunny but sliding in and out of my clenched fist.
His legs stiffened rigidly and his movements, except for a final
convulsive shudder, ceased. At the same instant I sensed the presence
of some warm, moist substance in my hand. I looked at it wonderingly
and found my palm and fingers sticky with a milky, viscid fluid.
One night, a week or so later, Rene and I were alone in the house. Papa
rarely came in before midnight and was generally so tipsy that
Mamma Agnes would have to put him to bed. On this occasion she had
gone to visit a sick friend and did not expect to return until quite late.
Mr. Peters had heard something of this and had whispered to me that I
should not go to bed until he returned as he was sure he would want
me to go on an errand for him.
He came in about nine o’clock and after confirming Mamma Agnes’
absence, sent me to the corner to get a paper with instructions to bring
it to his room when I came back. I had already communicated to Rene
my suspicion that Mr. Peters would “do something” to me when I took
the paper into his room, and Rene was going to peek through the
keyhole. It even occurred to me to take off my panties before going in.
My juvenile intuition was quite correct and Mr. Peters masturbated me
again while I stood between his knees holding my dress up and my
foster brother Rene crouched outside the door watching through the
keyhole.
Poor Mr. Peters. He never attempted to do anything except play with
me in this fashion and whether it was in his mind to venture further as
my sexual instincts unfolded will never be known, for one day, less
than three months after his first tentative overture, he was knocked
down by an omnibus and carried to a hospital where he died without
ever regaining consciousness. I cried heartily when it was known that
we would never see him again and his simple effects were packed up
for removal. In my estimation he was a kindly and generous soul who
had been the fount of many blessings.
A short time after Mr. Peters’ departure, a neighbourhood scandal was
bruited about among the residents of the vicinity. Down the street, in
the big house on the corner, lived a retired sea captain and his rather
large family. They were rated as well-to-do and employed a
maidservant, a cute little thing whose trim, silk-clad legs, black
uniform and lace-edged apron I had always secretly envied.
Among the younger c***dren of his household was a boy named
Leonard and a girl named Maisie. Leonard was about the same age as
Rene, but was undersized and wore glasses which gave his wizened
countenance a peculiarly owlish aspect. Maisie was very pretty. She
was two years younger than I. Both these c***dren were precocious. It
was said that Maisie would show her cunny to any boy who wanted to
see it and Leonard bragged that he fucked the maidservant whenever
he felt like it. There was some doubt as to the veracity of this, but the
doubt was dispelled abruptly when the maidservant suddenly
disappeared and the older c***dren of the household whispered into
the ears of their special confidants that she had been summarily
dismissed after having been caught in the very act of sucking
Leonard’s dickey while supposed to be supervising his bath.
“She had it right in her mouth when Mamma caught her!” they
whispered impressively.
Rene pressed Leonard for details when the opportunity later
presented itself, and listened to an entirely frank exposition of the
affair, which he then communicated to me.

The liaison with the maidservant had been started several months
previously by the versatile little maid herself. Each night, on tucking
him into bed, she had been in the habit of putting her hand under the
covers to see whether he had a hard-on. Inasmuch as such was almost
invariably the case, and the condition not being favourable in her
opinion to sound sleep, her remedy was to reduce the rigidity by means
of a hand massage to make it “lie down and go to sleep.”
One night she told Leonard that her efforts to make him sleepy were
having a contrary effect on her and that she couldn’t go to sleep for
hours after having put him to sleep. There was a way both could have
their sleeplessness cured. She would slip into his room later that night
after everybody was in bed and explain it to him. She squeezed his
dickey to make sure it was in its usual state of erection but refrained
from taking the customary measures to make it lie down.
When all was quiet in the household she slipped into his room like a
little ghost in her white nightgown, threw the covers back and lay
down by him. Taking his dickey in one hand she worked it until it was
in its maximum state of rigidity. With the other she guided his fingers
between her legs and with various motions and whispered instructions
showed him how to reciprocate the message.
“Her cunny has hair all around it, just like a grown-up person,”
confided Leonard.
After a while she stopped the rubbing and told him to get on top of her.
When he was in the proper position she started his dickey in the right
direction and, poppo! It went inside, just like that.
At this juncture in the recital, Rene interrupted to clear up a confusing
point. Had Leonard’s dickey gone clear in, or had it just sort of rubbed
along her cunny?
Emphatically, it had gone in, entirely and completely, not a bit stayed
outside. He was sure and specific on this point. It was dark that time,
but they had done it subsequently in the daytime when he could even
look down and see it while it was going in and out, and it absolutely
went clear in.
The story of Leonard’s relation with the maidservant progressed from
frigging to fucking and finally to the last act, in which the unexpected
entry of his mother into the bathroom while he was enjoying, and not
for the first time, the delights of being sucked off by the versatile maid
had brought an end to the fun.
Now the maid was gone and he was obliged to massage his dickey for
himself at night in order to make it lie down and go to sleep.
The sucking part was rather incomprehensible to Rene and me. We
were still rank novices in the arts of love and had much to learn. It was
a cause of preoccupation to us that we hadn’t been able to
approximate anything like the success Leonard and the maidservant
had achieved. Rene’s dickey simply couldn’t find its way in. We knew
in theory that it should, and we had both peered and looked and
fingered in an effort to find a hole big enough. There didn’t seem to be
any, or if there was, it was closed up very tightly.
With the candidness of youth Rene confided the difficulty to Leonard
and Leonard promptly offered to show him how to do it. I never
objected to anything Rene proposed, and submitted myself obediently
to the demonstration. Leonard knew no more about maidenheads than
Rene but he had the confidence which comes with experience and
when I took off my panties and lay down on the mattress he placed
himself between my knees and got his dickey which, despite his
slighter stature, was fully as big as Rene’s, against my cunny. He gave a
lunge, and a shriek escaped my lips which, had there been anyone else
in the house at the time, would have brought an investigation. His
dickey had gone in all right, but the sensation I experienced was far
from being conducive to further experimentation. After the first shriek
of pain I began to cry, the tears rolled down my cheeks and I struggled
to release myself.

Panic-stricken at the unexpected results, Leonard jerked away from
me and his dickey came out stained with a reddish fluid and a few
drops trickled down the inside of my thighs. Leonard was so frightened
that he fled from the scene, leaving Rene and me alone.
The pain was only momentary and as it died away I stopped crying,
but gazed with fright at the spots of blood which stained the white
flesh between my thighs. Rene dabbed at them nervously with his
handkerchief, and when no more appeared some of our assurance
returned, but I was aggrieved because of the stab of pain I had suffered.
When I stood up a feeling of soreness in my sexual parts was very
pronounced. Fortunately, Mamma Agnes made no embarrassing
inquiries when she found me in bed at an hour much earlier than my
accustomed one, and by the following day the soreness had mostly
passed away.
Thus I lost my maidenhead with pleasure neither to myself nor to my
violator.
Having my hymen punched out in so disagreeable a manner without
knowing exactly what had happened except that it was something
decidedly unpleasant resulted in a reluctance on my part to lend
myself to further exploitations which lasted for some weeks and might
have endured longer had not my emotions been stimulated anew by a
curious incident.
While rummaging through a pile of trash, old newspapers and
discarded magazines which had been swept out of a long-vacant
house nearby, Rene found a little green-covered book which, on being
opened, disclosed to his startled eyes a picture which confirmed the
basic theory of love. It was a rather neatly executed sketch showing a
beautiful young lady reclining upon a grassy mound under a tree. Her
dresses were drawn up, she had no panties on, and above the edge of
her disordered and half-open bodice peeped a pair of bubbies of most
astonishing proportions.

Between her thighs, half-lying, half-kneeling, with one of her silk clad
legs thrown over his hips, was a young boy. From his middle projected a
dickey which penetrated and was lost to sight for half its length in her
cunny, the protruding lips of which were plainly indicated just below a
profusion of curly black hair.
As soon as he recovered from the shock this picture caused him, Rene
streaked for home and excitedly signalled for me to follow him to the
attic. Breathlessly we gazed at the picture, then turned our attention to
the text which accompanied it. As we devoured the printed pages I
became aware of that moist, swollen, itchy feeling in my cunny. The
desire to experience anew the delicious sensations which Mr. Peters’
finger on several occasions, and the tip of Rene’s dickey on others had
afforded me began to surge through me and grow more and more
insistent as we slowly digested the revelations contained in the
booklet and which were phrased quite within our powers of
comprehension.
The title which graced the story was: “The Passionate Governess, or
Hubert’s First Fuck.” Before that book finally left our possession we
had read it so many times either of us could have recited it word for
word by memory.
It was about a beautiful young governess in a wealthy home who
entered into amorous adventures with one of her charges, Hubert, a
boy of fifteen. After a number of tantalizing episodes, in one of which
she catches Hubert peeking through the keyhole and masturbating
himself while she is bathing, she decided to gratify his curiosity and
save him from the vice of masturbation by letting him have sexual
intercourse with her.
The scene chosen for the sweet lesson in love is a beautiful sylvan
glade reached by crossing a lake in a rowboat. As the pretty governess
sits in the prow of the boat with Hubert at the oars facing her, she
carelessly permits her skirts to become so elevated above her knees
that Hubert is afforded a delightful opportunity to peek between her
legs and get teasing glimpses of the charms only half concealed under
the frilly lace of her panties. Under the stimulation of this enticing
sight he is in a suitable condition for his initiation in the rites of love.
After exciting preliminaries in which passionate kisses, caresses and
fondling of each other’s sexual parts are indulged in, and during which
Hubert’s curiosity regarding the more intimate aspects of feminine
anatomy is completely satisfied, the real initiation takes place as
shown in the illustration, and Hubert learns that the delights
attendant to plunging his dickey into the mossy glen between a pretty
girl’s legs are far superior to those he had formerly experienced in
masturbation.
It was a story with a moral, as you will have observed, intended to
discourage young people from practicing self-abuse.
When we had finished the last page I felt moist and sticky and it
seemed to me that my panties were wet. Rene’s trousers were jutted out
in front in a way which showed what effect the story had had on him.
He looked at me, and I looked at him.
“Shall we?” he whispered.
“Yes!” I answered, all recollection of the pain I had suffered the last
time this attic had been used for purposes of fornication completely
obliterated.
While Rene was unfastening his trousers I kicked off my panties and
lay down on the soft mattress. My emotions had been greatly excited
by the vivid little story and the first touches of Rene’s dickey against
the moist flesh of my cunny were indescribably sweet. For a few
moments I lay there languidly thrilling to the soft friction and pressure
as the tip of his dickey roved about over the sensitive area like a
person groping for a door in the dark. But suddenly I stiffened in alarm
for I distinctly felt the constriction which accompanied an actual
penetration and which brought back to my consciousness what had
happened before.
With muscles tensed in readiness to free myself with the first
indication of pain I held my breath and waited. But there was no pain.
To the contrary, the sensations I felt as Rene’s dickey slipped further
into the tight little hole were more agreeable than anything I had yet
experienced.
I moaned, not with pain this time, but with delight, and the next
moment, actuated by those natural instincts which need no previous
experience nor teacher to guide, we were both frantically heaving our
bottoms up and down in an effort to taste without delay the supreme
delight of which the intoxicating thrills now tantalizing us were but
the forerunners.
It comes but once in a lifetime, that indescribable, celestial glow which
suffuses the souls and blends the bodies of lovers in unforgettable
rapture, the first perfect sexual union of two beings who feel toward
each other the tender passion of youth unmarred as yet by maturity’s
grosser complexities, and I affirm that those who have not tasted the
fruit of love under these conditions have missed what is probably life’s
sweetest experience.
Rene and I had finally succeeded in unlocking the door which had
hitherto obstructed our progress and with the unlocking the latent
germs of sensuousness, undoubtedly implanted in my very soul, sprang
rapidly to full bloom. My ardour exceeded his, and it was I who now
suggested and even begged frequent visits to the dusty attic where,
with my panties off and my dress up or entirely removed, I writhed and
suspired ecstatically in response to his vigorous thrusts. And; after a
delicious orgasm had rewarded our efforts, I sighed inwardly with
regret at the inevitable transformation his little cock underwent,
dropping slowly but surely downward, its virile rigidity degenerating
into a flaccid inertia which incapacitated it from further immediate
use.

CHAPTER 2
We now had plenty of time to be alone. There was no tenant for the
extra room and Mamma Agnes was working out, with the result that
we had several hours at our disposal between the time school was over
and the hour at which she returned.
One day while we were standing on the sidewalk in front of the house
Leonard appeared. Leonard, being entirely in Rene’s confidence, had
been appraised of the new state of affairs. He had intimated that he
would like to try it again with me, which intimation I had listened to
with no great enthusiasm, not through chaste reluctance, but because
of the still lingering recollection of what had happened the first time.
I was still in ignorance of the exact physical facts and blamed him for
the pain I had suffered. After some desultory conversation the
enterprising Leonard suggested that the three of us proceed to the
attic and have a hoochy dance. If you are familiar with juvenile
parlance you may know that a hoochy dance is a simple but
interesting form of entertainment in which the participants take off
their clothes or “get naked” as they express it, and either with hands
joined or independently, will jump and cavort in a circle in a sort of
primitive dance.
The element of attraction in this otherwise inspired diversion being
that the boys can look at the girl’s cunny and the girl can look at the
boys’ dickies. “And…” continued Leonard, after contributing this
suggestion for a pleasant manner in which to pass the afternoon “…
afterwards, you can fuck Jessie and I’ll look, and then I’ll fuck her and
you can look.”
As for me I was entirely agreeable to the first part of the program, and
open to acceptance on the latter. It was Rene who interposed the
logical objection that three of us weren’t enough to properly stage a
hoochy dance and we set to speculating as to the possibility of getting
additional recruits. A hurried inventory of acceptable prospects only
brought to light that this one was not at home, that one was sick, and
another being “kept in” as a disciplinary measure, etc. It seemed there
was little hope of rounding out the party on short notice and as a last
recourse, Leonard rather apologetically suggested that maybe we’d be
satisfied with Maisie.
This was a thought. Maisie had never participated in any of our doings
because being younger than the rest of us we looked down upon her
from the vantage of our maturity and wisdom as being just a k**.
Nevertheless, Maisie had earned quite a reputation of her own and
Leonard made no secret of the fact that before his ideas had been
broadened by the vanished maidservant he had often diddled his little
sister. He looked on hopefully while Rene studied the suggestion.
“Can you find her?” queried Rene.
“Sure I can, if you’ll wait for me!” responded Leonard.
“Well, all right, then. Hurry up!”
In less than five minutes Leonard was back with Maisie in tow. She was
a beautiful little thing and her eyes were shining with elation at the
idea of being permitted to participate in older c***dren’s secrets.
“Now we’re going to have a hoochy dance in our attic,” explained
Rene, addressing her. “If we let you come, you won’t tell, will you?”
“No, no! I won’t tell, ever!” she exclaimed vehemently. “I’m not a
tattletale, am I, Lenny?” she added, turning to her brother for
corroboration.
“No, she won’t tell. She knows bloody well we’ll knock her block off if
she does!” responded Leonard with menacing emphasis.
Up to the attic we trooped and with much giggling and laughter
began to undress. True to the usual formula of feminine hypocrisy,
Maisie and I both made a great show of being concerned about the
boys seeing us before we were “ready” and chided them hysterically
for peeking while we were undressing.
This incitation had its natural effect upon the two boys and when we
finally faced them, every stitch of clothing removed from our white
little bodies, their cocks were standing out in stiff and rigid excitation.
We dragged the mattress to one side and, joining hands, began our
hoochy dance, which consisted of nothing more complicated than
swinging around in a circle and jumping up and down to the
accompaniment of some ribald verses which we repeated over and
over while the feminine eyes of the contiguity were fixed on jiggling
dickies which bounced up and down with the violent movements of
their owners, and the masculine ones on fat-lipped, hairless little
cunnies.
When we had finally exhausted our acrobatic and musical repertoire
we sat down, breathless, to rest and devise further exploits. Leonard
wanted to fuck me while Rene and Maisie looked on, and then have
the arrangement reversed with him and me the spectators while Rene
fucked Maisie.
I protested that it hurt with him and expressed a preference to do it
with Rene. My protest was partly actuated by something akin to
jealousy. Somehow, I didn’t exactly relish the idea of Rene fucking
Maisie. But Rene intervened, and his word was law. It wouldn’t hurt me
now if I did it with Leonard. I was used to it now.
And so, with Leonard crouched on one side and I on the other, both
watching with wide eyes, my foster brother Rene straddled Maisie’s
naked body, got his cock into a crevice which fitted around it like a
tight little ring of flesh and, without a mishap or indication of
discomfort on her part, fucked her until he had an orgasm.
Maisie never stirred or made a sound. She just lay there quietly,
looking up into his face with her big, wondering eyes until he had
finished and then calmly wriggled out from under him, sat up and
murmured:
“Now it’s our turn to watch!”
“Didn’t it make you feel nice, Maisie?” I asked in some astonishment at
her placidity. “When Rene and I do it, T just tremble all over, it makes
me feel so good!”
“Sure, it makes me feel nice. I like to do it!” affirmed Maisie, but it was
apparent that she had not yet experienced a real orgasm, even though
Leonard had long since gotten her maidenhead out of the way.
With some inward misgivings I submitted to Leonard’s ministrations
and, of course, quickly discovered that my fears were groundless, for
his dickey was in almost before I knew it, and this time without causing
me any pain. Not counting Leonard’s previous attempt, this was the
first time I had been really fucked by any boy except Rene and,
despite my affection for him, the novelty of a new cock had its
emotional reaction and very quickly brought my quivering organism
to that delicious borderland wherein for a few seconds the senses
vibrate in ecstatic anticipation before definitely rendering their
delicious offering. Another wiggle or two served to precipitate the
ejaculation.
I was about twelve years old when what I have just related occurred. A
few days later, on the way home from school, a boy named Bryan
sidled up to me and rather timidly asked me if I would do it with him.
Bryan was a boy I would have described as nice. He was f******n or
fifteen, always dressed very neatly, had a pleasing personality and
agreeable features. To say that I was not surprised at the overture
would be an exaggeration, yet I was not displeased. If I had any doubts
as to precisely what he meant by “do it” with him, the doubt was
dispelled with one look into his flushed face and averted eyes and the
uneasy, furtive glances he cast about as though to assure himself that
there was no one else within hearing. Nevertheless, to delay an answer
until I could gather my confused thoughts, I murmured innocently:
“Do what with you?”
“Aw, you know what I mean, Jessie!”
“No, I don’t!”
“Something nice… like you did with Lenny Connors!”
His reference to Leonard caused me a slight chill of apprehension, but
did not entirely prejudice me against him. He continued to coax, and I,
beginning to enjoy the thrill of being begged for something with such
humility, neither definitely denied nor promised my complacency.
“Where could we go to do it?” I asked evasively.
His answer to this revealed the fact that he was well informed
regarding my private life and affairs.
“Couldn’t we go up to your attic before your mamma comes home?” he
suggested hopefully.
This was something Rene would have to be consulted on, so I evaded a
direct answer by saying I’d tell him the next day, and with that I
skipped off.
“Bryan wants to do it with me. Shall I let him?” I asked Rene.
“Bryan? Bryan who?”
“Bryan Thompson, that boy that lives over on Little Goose Neck Road.”

Rene considered the matter for a moment and deciding apparently
that it was of insufficient importance to trouble his head over,
disclaimed responsibility with an indifferent shrug.
“Oh, I don’t know. Do what you want. What do I care?”
“He knows about Leonard and me. I bet Maisie… ‘
“Gee! You better do it with him so he won’t tell. I got to go now and see
a chap. Goodbye.”
And so it came about that Bryan’s name was added to my now growing
list of youthful paramours. He was bigger than Rene or Leonard, and
had something which neither of the other two possessed, a growth of
dark, crisp hair on his pubic regions. He hurt me a little, but he was
careful and despite the slightly painful distension I soon began to feel
the warm, sensuous tremors which precede orgasm. His slow, cautious
thrusts brought my organism to a, pitch of excitation such as I had not
yet experienced, and when the climax came I almost fainted with the
intensity of the ecstasy. Afterwards, he showed me where my
fingernails had actually cut into his flesh while I was hugging him in
the crisis. He was a very gentlemanly little fellow and thanked me in
the most courteous and serious manner imaginable for having let him
do it to me. In addition, he made me glow happily by telling me that I
had the prettiest legs of any girl he had ever seen. Bryan had the
makings of a real courtier.
Before long my popularity was spreading and new suitors for my
favours were appearing almost magically. Sometimes even boys and
young men I did not know accosted me in the streets, some humbly and
supplicatingly, and others quite impertinently.
Instead of being alarmed at this situation I took it as a flattering
indication of my popularity. And, inevitably, I discovered that the soft
nest between my legs, upon which a filmy growth of silky hair was
beginning to grow, could be made to hatch financial rewards as well as
genetic pleasures.
That some horrible fate did not overtake me as the result of my
complacency with utter strangers is only proof of the old, old theory
that guardian angels look after the safety of c***dren and fools,
sometimes, at least.
Once I made an appointment with a man to meet him at a certain
corner after dark, expecting to be taken to a room. He led me into an
alley of such sinister and abandoned aspects that I did indeed become
alarmed and refused to go any further. For a while he tried to persuade
me with flattering words and promises of generous compensation, but
the more he talked, the more uneasy I became, and finally, cursing me
viciously, he turned away and quickly disappeared.
One night a young man of genteel but delicate physical features
accosted me in terms so respectful and courteous that I listened to his
insinuations and consented to accompany him to his room which,
though far from pretentious, was neatly and comfortably furnished.
I had long since discovered that men’s first thoughts were to see me
naked as quickly as possible; they seemed literally burning to gorge
their eyes with the spectacle of my nudity, so as soon as I was in the
privacy of a room I always undressed down to my hose and slippers
without waiting to be asked.
No sooner was the door closed behind us in this instance than I started
to take off my clothes. But the young man stopped me with a gesture.
“No, no!” he exclaimed, “don’t undress!”
I paused uncertainly.
“I’ve got to take off my clothes… my panties anyway… don’t you want to
see me naked?”

“No, no! Don’t take off anything! I’ll tell you what to do, don’t do
anything except just what I tell you. You’ll get your money.”
“But… but what do you want me to do?”
“I’ll show you. Just sit down and wait. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I sat down in the chair he indicated and he disappeared into an
adjoining room, closing the door behind him. I heard him moving
about, and five minutes later he appeared again, strip, stark naked. He
was rather thin, but his skin was white and clean. His cock, entirely
indifferent to the proximity of a feminine spectator, hung down inert
and listless.
Crossing the room he unlocked a cabinet and took from it a bundle of
thin, pliant switches. Selecting one of these he extended it toward me
and murmured in a voice which was both low and supplicating:
“Take this switch and whip me as hard as you can.”
I gazed at him mute with stupefaction.
“Come!” he urged, putting the switch in my hand.”
“You’re joking!” I managed to exclaim.
“What do you want me to whip you for?”
“Oh, don’t waste time asking questions! Do as I ask and you’ll get your
money!”
I saw that he was in earnest and, thinking that I had to deal with a
crazy man whom it would be best to humour, dazedly got to my feet
clutching the switch which he had placed in my hand.

“Whip me as hard as you can!” he whispered huskily, indicating the
cheeks of his bottom with a gesture.
Fearfully, I drew back the slender birch and brought it forward against
his flesh with a smart thwack.
“Harder!” he said, “as hard as you can!”
I repeated the blow, with greater force.
“Keep on! Don’t stop! Don’t be afraid!”
In obedience to this exhortation I struck him several more blows in
succession.
“That’s the way… only harder!” he exclaimed.
Again I drew the birch back and this time it fairly whistled through
the air as it rained stinging cuts over his thighs and buttocks. In its
wake livid crisscross lines began to appear on the white flesh. As I saw
these marks developing under my blows a curious sensation began
creeping up through my own body. A sort of fury took possession of me
and instead of feeling sorry for the pain I was inflicting I felt an urge to
increase his torment. My face was hot and my heart beat violently. I
clenched my teeth and put all the strength I possessed behind the
swishing birch.
He stood there rigidly, his eyes glassy, distended, an ecstatic
expression on his face. And then I noticed something else. His cock,
which had at first been hanging lifelessly down, was coming into a
slow erection. It was expanding in size and jerking convulsively at
short intervals and with each jerk it lifted itself upward a little higher.
I watched it with fascinated eyes and as it slowly assumed its
maximum of rigidity and erection the first shiver of something akin to
lewd voluptuousness kindled within me. I comprehended that in some

manner there was a relation between the whipping I was inflicting on
him and my own obscure, erotic reaction, and I tried to increase the
severity of my blows.
“Enough!” he gasped suddenly, and snatching the whip from me he
flung it across the room. “Now! Frig me quick!” And he seized my hand
and placed it upon his cock.
I was now in a state in which I would have welcomed a reciprocal
caress, even masturbation, but I dared not disobey him. Supporting his
testicles with one hand I pumped his cock frenziedly with the other
and before I had made a dozen passes his seminal fluid was spurting
from my fist in copious jets.
For this service, my first experience in the realms of abnormal sexual
practices, the young man presented me with ten shillings and I went
home marvelling, not only at his curious eccentricity, but at the
peculiar sensations I myself had experienced while occupied with the
weird business.
My moral status was now pretty well established in the
neighbourhood in which I had lived since infancy. The echoes from
shrewish tongues to the effect that “something should be done” had
reached my ears on more than one occasion. I had not been able to
conceal my occasional financial affluence from Mamma Agnes who
had taken note of mysteriously acquired bits of finery and articles of
personal adornment which could not be readily accounted for. Her
comments, at first veiled, became more cynical as time went on. Her
well-founded suspicions were justified when, returning one afternoon
at an hour much earlier than the usual one, she opened a door which
Rene and I, grown careless with respect to elementary precautions, had
left unlocked.
When we first saw her she was swaying tip-silly in the open door.
Tipsy, yes, but not too tipsy to realize the significance of the picture
which confronted her. I, my breasts still heaving under the stimulation
of an orgasm just effected, lying on the bed with my panties off and the
rest of my clothing in guilty disarray, and Rene, his pants unbuttoned
in front and his still rigid cock projecting therefrom as he reached for a
towel to wipe it off in the precise moment in which the movement of
the door attracted our attention.
There was a dull minute of silence; silence frozen and absolute except
for the imperturbable ticking of the small china clock on the dresser.
Raising her hands in front of her with the palms outward in a gesture of
renunciation, Mamma Agnes murmured thickly:
“I war-r-shh me hands of the pair of ye!”
And she closed the door upon us, leaving Rene and me to stare at each
other in blank dismay.
“Gee, Sis! Why didn’t you latch the door?” exclaimed Rene when the
sound of her footsteps had died away.
“Why didn’t you?” I countered weakly.
From this time on Mamma Agnes maintained a stony indifference
toward me, speaking only when unavoidable, and then with caustic
brevity.
One Saturday evening about a month later, as I was returning to the
house after having spent the afternoon with a girl friend, a young man
passed me in the street. His glance, as it appraisingly flitted over my
face and body, conveyed the message I had learned to recognize and in
a brief moment of passing I was able to observe that in addition to a
handsome appearance, he was more than commonly well-dressed. The
immaculate linen and modish cut of his clothes, together with an
expensive topcoat, suggested money, of which at that moment I had
none, and I had seen in a store that very day a pair of high-heeled
slippers of irresistible appeal.

I slowed my steps and paused before a shop window. I was not
mistaken in my anticipations, for he was quickly at my side,
murmuring seductive blandishments in my ear.
Up to a certain point my knowledge of what transpired subsequently
is quite clear, but beyond that only incoherent and fragmentary
recollection remains.
There was a long ride in a cab which took us into a distant section of
the city unfamiliar to me, a luxurious residence into which we were
received by a uniformed domestic who bowed servility to each curt
order from the young man who accompanied me. I had made a
conquest this time which far outshone any previous adventure. All this
stands out vividly in my memory, together with the beautiful and
costly furnishings of the rooms to which I was conducted, the rich, red
wine I drank from a sparkling crystal goblet and which sent the blood
coursing through my veins, filling me with a delicious languor as I sat
naked on my companion’s knees while his hands and lips caressed my
body, lips which tugged and sucked at the little nipples of my breasts
causing them to puff up excitedly and send delicious radiations
vibrating through me, soft, well-kept hands with delicate fingers
whose exquisite titillations between my yielding legs evoked other
delicious ecstasies.
Another goblet of ruby-red wine, two, maybe three, and the
recollection begins to dim, with only an occasional flash reacting upon
my memory; a bed, wonderfully soft and warm and yielding, silken
covers which caressed my naked body like the touch of feathers,
oblivion, and then a return to semi consciousness and an indifferent
realization of the fact that I was being fucked, another period of
darkness and again the awareness of a warm, throbbing cock stirring
inside my body.
And so on, throughout what seemed interminable hours, I alternated
between moments of lucidity and long periods of oblivion. Whether it
was one fuck which lasted all night, or a dozen repeated at intervals I
do not know. I had never been drunk before, and it was more like some
incoherent dream than a reality.
When I awoke I could not at first remember the circumstances which
accounted for my presence in such unfamiliar surroundings. I sat up
among the disordered coverings and looked about. I was alone. My
clothes were d****d over a settee where I had placed them on
disrobing the previous night. I was entirely naked and had a splitting
headache, the explanation of which was apparent in the form of empty
bottles and wine-stained goblets on a small tabouret near the bed.
As my glance roved about the room it encountered a clock sustained
in the uplifted arms of a porcelain shepherdess, and I saw with a start
that it was past the hour of eleven. I had never been absent from home
all night before.
In this moment there was a rap at the door and hardly had I time to
snatch a sheet up over my bubbles than it opened and a servant, the
same one who had admitted us the previous evening, entered, bearing
a tray with a pot of tea, some buttered toast and marmalade.
“The marster’s horders, Miss, to serve you breakfast, and get a cab for
you when you’re ready.”
With the sheet still clutched over my breasts I watched him as he drew
up a small table which, pivoting on an iron base, swung directly over
my lap as I sat there in bed. After placing the tray on the table he
indicated a silver bell.
“You may ring that, Miss, after you’re dressed, when you’re ready to
go.”
I sipped the tea and nibbled at the toast after he had gone, immersed
in uneasy meditations which the situation naturally inspired. When I
had eaten as much as I could with an appetite impaired by a throbbing
headache, I slipped out of bed and began to dress.

When I picked up my stocking I felt some lumpy article inside of it.
With the thought that a garter had gotten inside I ran my hand down
within the silken sheath but instead of a garter I retrieved a crumpled
five pound note. I smoothed it out and gazed at it incredulously. I had
never possessed that much money at one time in my entire life. And
yet, when I picked up the second stocking there was another note of
the same denomination in that one also.
Ten pounds! A veritable fortune.
I forgot both my headache and the uneasiness as to what the
consequences of my all-night absence might be. I hurried through my
dressing, tarried but a moment in the beautiful bathroom, and rang the
bell.
The domestic appeared immediately and led me downstairs and out to
the street where a cab, already summoned, was waiting. In answer to
the driver’s query, I mentioned a corner a few blocks from where I
lived, and when we reached this destination I got out and walked the
rest of the way.
Mamma Agnes listened to my unconvincing story of having spent the
night in the home of a girl friend in frigid silence, except for an
observation to the effect that she only hoped the girl hadn’t given me a
dose of clap or perhaps gotten me in a family way.
I was not discreet enough to hide the harvest of this adventure and my
sudden acquisition of riches, flaunted in the form of resplendent new
dresses, silk hose, modish slippers, a new hat and other articles of
adornment, in the face of envious and resentful females of the
neighbourhood, brought a reprisal.
Upon information gratuitously submitted by a committee of righteous
ladies I was taken into custody as a delinquent minor, and as a result of
the investigation which transpired, I was first subjected to a physical
examination of a most embarrassing nature, and then committed to a
reformatory for wayward girls, destined to remain there until I became
of age.

CHAPTER 3
Three drab and dreary years I passed in this institution, submerged in
an atmosphere of repression and humiliation which was fairly soul
suffocating.
My complete lack of adaptability to the manual work assigned to new
arrivals made me the special target of persecution by the female
warders. My delicate physique and small hands and tiny, pointed
fingers, so patently incapable of performing scullery work, laundering,
and floor scrubbing with any degree of efficiency seemed to kindle
their resentment.
Quick enough to show fight at first to these manifest injustices, I soon
learned that, right or wrong, I was always on the losing end and that
the slightest indication of insubordination brought punishment of a
heartbreaking nature to say nothing of the loss of certain prerogatives
and so called privileges which were greatly prized in this barren place
and which were accorded only to those who accepted their fate with
the proper show of humility and servility.
The first two or three months were a perfect nightmare of horror. Let
me make myself clear, the sufferings were more mental than physical,
for there was little or no actual physical brutality. Corporal
punishment, though authorized for incorrigibles, was rarely resorted to.
I do not think there were more than half a dozen whippings inflicted on
girls during the entire period I was in the institution. These whippings
though, when they were administered, were something not to be
forgotten.
In addition to the humiliation of being forced to lie face down across a
massive table with her panties removed, the blows inflicted on the
victim’s naked bottom were of such severity as to cause her to shriek
with anguish. Five or six or seven times during my incarceration my
face blanched at the sound of those shrill cries, intermingled with the
dull slap, slap, slap of heavy leather against naked flesh.

However, time reconciles us to any misfortune and we become
hardened to the inevitable.
As this institution admitted only minors, many of whom were girls not
over fifteen, educational facilities were provided and there were four
hours of classes daily, except Saturdays and Sundays. I discovered that
in study there was a surcease from the deadly monotony. I had never
been very studious; in fact, during the year proceeding my
commitment my interest in learning had waned almost to the
vanishing point.
Now, however, I found that time devoted to study passed very quickly.
It was something like a mental narcotic which kept one’s thoughts from
useless repining. My application impressed the teachers and matrons
favourably, and gradually they became friendly and treated me with
greater consideration. And, if it be true that every cloud has its silver
lining, the silver lining in this one was that I received an education
which I would otherwise never have possessed.
I passed the probation period and was relieved from further scullery
work. It would be carried on by new unfortunates, two or three of
whom appeared each week.
We slept in dormitories or wards, each ward a long room with from
twenty or thirty narrow iron beds in a row. These wards were locked at
night, and a matron slept in each one, locked in with her charges. In
addition, there was always a night superintendent on duty, who could
be called in any emergency.
At nine o’clock each night all lights excepting a dim one near the ward
matron’s bed were turned out and no conversation was permitted
between girls after that hour. Our movements during the day, except
in school or work hours, were fairly unrestricted within the confines of
the building and grounds, but at seven o’clock we entered our
respective wards and were allowed to talk, read, and attend to our
toilet necessities. At nine we had to be in bed and cease all
conversation. As it was impossible to fall asleep immediately, the hour
which followed was probably the most disagreeable of the deadly
routine. By ten o’clock most of us had found peace in slumber.
But there was a variation to this feature to which we always looked
forward. The ward matrons were rotated weekly between dormitories.
And, as is sometimes the case in correctional institutions, there are
occasional kindly hearted individuals who, instead of exercising the
last ounce of their authority to make life as miserable as possible for
their unfortunate charges, are disposed to mitigate their wretchedness
when possible to do so at no great cost.
A certain matron who slept in our ward one week in every five
condoned whispered conversations after nine o’clock, even though it
was against the rules. Another, also with us one week in every five, was
a very sound sleeper and snored so loudly we were never in doubt as to
when she was asleep. So, during the weeks when either of these two
matrons were on duty we were fairly safe in exchanging whispered
conversations as late as we wished. When the snoring matron was on
duty we told naughty stories or exchanged venal confidences.
Occupying the bed on my left side, with a space of about four feet
between us, was a girl named Hester. She was but a few months older
than I, but much more so in experience. She was taller than I and very
pretty. Her hair, which almost reached to her knees when unbound,
was that beautiful shade of auburn which just misses being black by
the narrowest margin. She had been very nice to me from the start and
had given me much kind and useful advice. She was philosophical in
her attitude and possessed of an extremely likeable personality.
Nearly all the girls in this reformatory owed their commitment to
delinquencies of a sexual nature. Hester had been taken out of a house
of prostitution.
She questioned me as to how much money I had been accustomed to
get for the bestowal of my favours and when I told her, ruefully, that
though my last and fatal adventure had brought me ten pounds, I had
rarely gotten over ten shillings, frequently far less, and sometimes
nothing at all, she exclaimed:
“Why, you little fool! With your form and baby face you could earn
fifteen or twenty pounds a week. In the place I was last I got a pound
every time I did it beside what the madam got, and lots of times I got
more than that! Why, you were just a little charity chippy!”
One night, taking advantage of the snoring matron’s somnolence, we
whispered stories and experiences until eleven o’clock. The ward lights
were out at this hour, but the shaded lamp near the matron’s bed gave
just enough light to break the darkness. Hester suddenly kicked off the
bed coverings and, stretching her legs out lasciviously, exclaimed:
“Oh, Lord! For a good stiff cock!”
I murmured some sympathetic rejoiner as, lying on my side facing her, I
observed her pretty round legs dimly visible in the half darkness.
“Gee, don’t you ever get that way, Jessie? Sometimes I want to fuck so
darn bad I nearly go crazy!”
“Who wouldn’t, locked up in this miserable place month after month?”
I answered gloomily.
She sighed, and after a moment of silence, whispered:
“Did you ever kiss the baby in the boat, Jessie?”
“Did I ever what?”
“Kiss the baby… suck another woman.”
“No!”
“I never did, either. But there are girls here that do. I sucked a guy’s
cock once. I didn’t like it much, but if I had one now I could eat it alive.”
She giggled faintly.
“Well, I don’t know what you’re going to do. Go hungry, I guess.”
“I darned well know what I’m going to do. It’s better than nothing!” she
exclaimed, and arching her legs she placed a hand over her cunny and
began to rub it vigorously.
From around us came the sound of suppressed giggles, sighs, and the
movements of other listeners as they stirred uneasily in their own
narrow beds.
I watched the rapid movement of her hand, dimly visible in the partial
darkness. And when, with a groan of satisfaction, the movements
ceased, my own hand edged down between my legs and under discreet
cover sought to quench in like form the fires her frank words and
franker actions had aroused.
What she had said about girls who did certain things was true. To be
caught in another girl’s bed or in any other compromising
circumstance indicating that something of this kind was going on was
one of the things that girls could be whipped for, and two or three of
the whippings which took place while I was there were for exactly this
cause.
Nevertheless, something of this kind was going on most of the time
without the matrons knowing about it. Sometimes the girls would take
a chance in the night time while the ward matron was asleep and get
two in a bed, but this was very dangerous because the switch which
controlled the lights was right near the matron’s hand, and she could
flood the room with light instantly should she hear any suspicious
sound.

There was a safer way. In each ward there was a linen-room where
clean sheets, pillowcases, towels, and extra blankets were kept. It was a
very small room, mostly filled with shelves, but there was a little extra
space. The doors to these closets were kept locked, but the keys were in
the possession of linen-room girls, or trusties, assigned to distribute
towels, sheets, pillowcases, etc., as needed in their respective wards.
If satisfactory arrangements could be made with a linen-room girl, the
door would be left unlocked, and when two lovers had slipped inside
unobserved by matrons, she would lock the door, leaving them inside
for half an hour or so, and when the coast was clear, let them out and
lock the door again.
Some weeks before my entry in the reformatory, there had been a
linen-room rendezvous of this kind in another ward and the lovers had
been caught. It came about through a peculiar accident. A matron,
coming down the long corridor between wards, saw a girl she wished to
speak to entering a certain ward. She followed her, but when she got
inside the ward the girl she had seen was not visible, which mystified
her, and with good reason. The girl she was following and a companion
were already locked inside the linen closet. Seeing the linen-room girl
standing nearby, the matron asked her if such and such a girl had not
come in a few moments before.
“No, ma’am,” was the reply. “She isn’t in here. She must be out in the
yard, or downstairs.”
“But I’m positive I saw her come in here not half a minute ago!”
“It must have been someone else, ma’am!” answered the frightened girl.
“Someone else? There’s no one else in here but you! What’s going on
here, anyway?”
The puzzled matron glanced around the empty dormitory. Her eyes fell
on the door to the linen room. She went to it and tried it. The door was
locked.
“Give me the key to this door,” she requested.
“I… ah, I’ve lost it, ma’am!” stammered the poor girl.
“Give me that key!”
Inside the linen room two trembling lovebirds were listening to the
ominous conversation. Naturally, when the matron opened the door
and found not only one girl but two, she grasped the situation and both
the lovers and the linen-room girl were strapped over the table in the
superintendent’s office and whipped on their bare bottoms.
For a while after this a watch was kept on the linen rooms, but the
vigilance gradually relaxed and now they were being used again with
considerable frequency.
There was Heloise, whom everyone called Frenchy, who would suck
another girl off for any trifling payment. And several others who were
known or suspected of similar complacencies.
Hester, who had become my special pal and confident, used to joke
with me in her dry, half comical, half serious way, as we sat on the
edges of our beds at night before lights out.
“Darn you, Jessie, you give me a hard-on every time I see you
undressed. I believe I’ll sneak into your bed some night and give you a
good fucking.”
“I don’t think you’ve got what’s needed!” I replied, snickering.
“Well, I could gamahuche you, anyway. Do you think you’d like that?”
“Gosh, I don’t know. Two different fellows I went with did it to me that
way. I don’t know how it would be with a girl.”
“Must give one a funny sensation to have another girl do that to you.
There are women who pay for it that way. And maybe you don’t
believe it, but there are even some that will pay you just for letting
them do that to you, without you doing a thing. Some people have the
funniest ideas.”
I told her about the fellow who had paid me to whip him.
“That’s nothing,” she replied, “there are lots of men like that. The ones
you have to be careful about are the ones that want to whip you. Some
of them go crazy and whip you so hard the blood comes. They don’t
care how much they hurt you.”
“Why, I wouldn’t let them whip me!” I exclaimed, horrified.
“Well, when you’re in a sporting house you have to do everything and
pretend to like it. Those fellows who do funny things are generally the
best spenders. They’re always springing something new on you, too,”
she continued, “the best paying regular I had was one of the funny
kind; you’d never guess what I had to do with him.”
“Tell me, Hester!” I begged.
She began to giggle.
“Well, there really wasn’t much to it, but it was so… so… crazy, I nearly
went into hysterics the first few times, until I got used to it. He’d lie
down on the bed and make me get on my knees, straddling him, right
over his face. Then I had to jack myself off with my fingers, and just
when I started to cream, put my cunny down on his mouth. And will
you believe it, right then he’d start to squirt without my even touching
his cock, and the stuff would fly all over my bare back.”

“My heavens!” I breathed.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she continued, changing the subject. “I laid
awake the longest time, just imagining things, and thinking what I’d
like to have the first night after I get out of here.”
“I can guess,” I said dryly, “a stiff cock.”
“No; five of them, all at the same time.”
“Five? At one time?”
“Yes; one in my cunny, one in my mouth, one in my bottom, and…” she
burst into laughter, “…one in each hand!”
“Hester, you’re the limit!” I exploded.
“I get so darn tired of jacking myself off I’ve half a mind to go in the
linen-room with Frenchy. She’s crazy about that new shoulder scarf I
have, and it’s no good to me in here, anyway.”
“Well, why don’t you?” I suggested. “You can tell me all about it
afterwards. But be careful! I’d faint if I ever heard you getting the
strap.”
“Maybe I will. There isn’t any danger. They don’t watch the linenrooms
much. Besides, I thought of a dandy way to fix things so they
couldn’t catch us. I saw Amy and that new girl she chums around with
sneaking out of the linen room in ward five this afternoon. I had a
suspicion that’s what Amy was up to when she started being so nice to
that little k**.”
“Jessie! Jessie!” I heard someone calling softly as I was sitting on a
bench in the exercise yard reading the next afternoon. I glanced up,
and saw Hester hurrying toward me. “Frenchy and I are going in the
linen room. You come up and stand in the corridor where you can
watch the stairs! If any of the matrons come, you signal the linen-room
girl before they get upstairs, and she’ll have time to get us out before
they reach the dormitory!”
“All right!” I agreed, rising to follow her.
This was a very practical plan. The ward was far enough from the top of
the stairway to allow ample time for them to get out of the linen room
should the girl on watch in the doorway receive a signal from me. The
only risk they ran was that of being abruptly interrupted in their affair.
I followed Hester up to the corridor and stationed myself where I could
watch the stairs and at the same time be seen by the linen-room girl in
the doorway of the dormitory who, in the event that I suddenly started
to walk toward her, would quickly warn Heater and Frenchy.
But there were no interruptions. I stood there twenty or twenty-five
minutes, watching the stairs and picturing in my mind what was taking
place within the linen-room. The girl finally disappeared from the
entrance and I knew she had gone to unlock the door.
A few moments later Hester and Frenchy appeared in the corridor.
There was nothing in Frenchy’s calm demeanour to indicate anything
unusual, but Hester’s face was scarlet and she was holding her
handkerchief over it. Frenchy sauntered coolly into another dormitory
and Hester went on downstairs with me and out into the yard.
“Well… ?” I invited, after waiting for her to say something. “How was
it?”
“Oh, Jessie! It… I… she… wait till I get my breath…” and she began to
laugh hysterically. When she recovered her composure and her face
had resumed its natural hue, she said: “I can’t talk about it yet; I’ll tell
you tonight. Look: my hands are still shaking, I’m so nervous!”

“Oh, all right,” I answered disgustedly, “but I don’t see what you have
to be nervous about now.”
“It’s the reaction. Don’t be sore; I’ll tell you all about it tonight, honey!”
And, that night, sitting close together on the edge of my bed before
lights out, at my insistent urging, Hester told me in whispers what there
was to tell.
“Well, we got inside, and as soon as we heard the door lock we turned
on the light and took our panties off and hid them under some sheets
on a shelf so in case we had to come out quick we could just leave them
there and get them later. Then we put a blanket on the floor and I laid
down on it. Frenchy wanted to do 69 but I told her I didn’t want to do it
that way because I couldn’t get my nerve up to do that to a girl. So she
said all right, she’d just do it to me. It was the funniest thing, Jessie, all
last night and today, while I was thinking about it, I felt hot, but no
sooner did I get inside that room with her than my passion all left me. I
felt like telling her I had changed my mind and letting her keep the
scarf anyway. But then I thought, what a silly thing to do after going to
so much bother, and why not let her go through with it. When she
pulled my dress up I started to giggle, I couldn’t help it, I felt so funny,
not passionate, just silly. Well, she squeezed in between my legs, and
stuck her tongue right up inside. When I felt it go in I wanted to push
her away, but I didn’t and after she put it in and out a while, she began
to lick me all around down there, and then she started to suck my
bottom. I thought I’d go crazy, really. I couldn’t stop laughing. It didn’t
make me feel passionate, but the sensation started to come anyway,
and sure enough, she did make me cream something fierce. If she’d
have stopped then it wouldn’t have been so bad, but she stuck to me
like a little leech and it set my nerves on edge so, I felt like scratching
her. I almost had to yell at her to make her let go. She wanted to know
when I’d let her do it again; I told her ‘someday’ but I don’t think I ever
will. It isn’t so hot. I don’t see how some girls can go batty over that kind
of stuff.”

CHAPTER 4
The time dragged on. With the exception of such little momentary
distractions as those I have described, there was little to break the
monotony. During the first year and a half I received occasional visits
from Mamma Agnes, and sometimes from Rene. How I would have
enjoyed an hour or two with him in privacy, but such was not to be, for
visiting was confined to the reception room and there was always a
matron present to see that no contraband gifts were passed to inmates.
Even the letters written to us were opened and read before being
placed in our hands. Often, letters written to girls by male friends were
destroyed without being seen by those to whom they were addressed.
Through some artful manoeuvre, a s*******n-year-old girl in our ward
named Georgette succeeded in getting some little pictures of men and
women doing everything imaginable. They were not drawings like the
one in the little book Rene had found, but real photographs.
Georgette had these pictures about two weeks when apparently some
word of their presence, either accidentally or through malicious
tattling, reached the ears of the superintendent.
Accompanied by two matrons she entered our ward one night just
after lock-up, and proceeded to search it thoroughly. One of the
matrons found the little packet of pictures under Georgette’s mattress
and we knew it was the pictures they were looking for because they
stopped searching as soon as they found them.
They took poor little Georgette out, downstairs to the superintendent’s
office. As soon as they had gone a profound silence fell over the ward.
Nobody said anything. We were all waiting with strained nerves to
hear certain sounds which would cause some of us to tremble, others to
murmur curses, and others to giggle with callow indifference or maybe
hysterical nervousness.
Moment by moment we waited but the expected sounds did not
materialize. The minutes dragged on, ten, fifteen, twenty, a half an
48
hour. Maybe they were not going to whip Georgette after all. But
suddenly the tense silence was broken by a distant but sharply
audible thwack. It was followed by another, and another, and with the
third blow an agonized scream reached our ears. Four, five, six, seven,
eight, nine, ten. Mechanically we counted the strokes as the bloodchilling cadence of strap and shrieks rent the air. With the tenth stroke
it stopped, and those of us who were inspired with sentiments of pity
and sympathy breathed a sigh of relief.
Five minutes elapsed, and to our surprise, the woeful dirge with its
horrid slap, slap, slap accompaniment began again. From one up to ten
it again ran its ominous course. This was something unusual; we
recalled of no previous instance in which the punishment had been
inflicted twice in succession.
At the tenth blow, as before, came silence. u*********sly I had
clenched my hands so tightly that they were numb with the pressure. I
glanced at Hester. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, her chin
cupped in her hands, gazing morosely downward. After the second
whipping there was a long period of silence. Momentarily we expected
to see Georgette being brought back into the dormitory, and were
fairly paralysed with horror when the dolorous refrain commenced
anew. Even the face of Mrs. Barrows, our ward matron, was pale as she
sat at the little desk near her bed, nervously twisting a pencil in her
fingers.
“If they whip me like that I’ll come back here and kill them if I never
do another thing in life!” whispered Hester.
A few minutes after the echoes of the tenth and last blow of the triple
inquisition had died away we heard the door of the superintendent’s
office open, and the sound of slow steps on the stairs and in the corridor
followed. Finally, there was Georgette, sobbing huskily and supported
by the arms of the two matrons. Mrs. Barrows unlocked the door and
helped Georgette to her bed.
49
Kindly hands undressed her and laid her face down on her cot. When
her bottom was uncovered we gasped with horror. It was a mass of
purple welts, each welt puffed up and swollen terribly. Even Mrs.
Barrows expressed surprise as she hastened to get a jar of cold cream
with which to allay the inflammation.
“Why did they whip you three times, Georgette?” we whispered in
sympathetic wonder.
“They were trying to make me tell how I got the pictures,” answered
Georgette, her voice broken with intermittent sobs.
“Did you tell them?”
“No!”
All things must end and the time of my release was near at hand.
Mamma Agnes was dead. She had passed away during the second
year of my imprisonment, and Rene had shortly thereafter come to bid
me good-bye. He was going to Canada, and would send me money to
join him when I was free, he said. For a while my thoughts were
brightened with his hope. But his letters, coming at first with
regularity and sometimes containing small sums of money, gradually
became less frequent and were less definite in tone with regard to our
original plans. They finally ceased altogether and the walls of oblivion
closed about my foster brother Rene.
It was destined, seemingly, that the day of my liberation would find me
homeless, the last tie which linked me to my former life cut off, and
with no provision for the future. It was in this extremity that Hester,
whose freedom was due several months in advance of mine, and who
had confided to me that a place was arranged for and awaiting her in
the atelier of a certain Madame Lafronde, suggested that I also place
myself at the disposition of this lady in whom she had the utmost
confidence.
50
She painted a glowing picture of the comfortable life and financial
rewards to be enjoyed in the high-class establishment operated by this
Madame Lafronde. It catered to a very select clientele recruited
among the gentility and nobility. She was certain that Madame
Lafronde would welcome me with open arms and so eloquent was she
that I did not long hesitate in accepting her offer to intercede for me.
Before Hester passed through the big front doors to freedom it had
been arranged that I was to have a visitor, ostensibly an aunt, who
would call on me a few days before my own release was due. This aunt
would be no other than Madame Lafronde herself, and the purpose of
her visit would be to decide whether I was an acceptable candidate for
her atelier.
The tight pressure of Hester’s hand, and the soft kiss she left on my
cheek as she bid me farewell filled my eyes with tears. I had come to
regard her with great affection, and her absence would weigh heavily
on my heart.
“Don’t cry, Jessie darling,” she whispered, “we’ll soon be together again.
I won’t forget you. Remember now, when Madame Lafronde comes, call
her Aunt Mary, and act as though you knew her or else…”
Further conversation was interrupted by a matron, and with a last hug
and kiss we separated.
The four months which followed were the longest and dreariest of all
the long months I spent in the reformatory. The fact that a new life was
close at hand actually seemed to retard the passage of time rather
than hurry it.
But there were moments of happiness occasioned by the arrival of
little packages containing candies, cakes and other gifts of a nature
permitted by the regulations. There were also letters which, despite
their discreet wording and the mysterious signature “your loving
cousin, Frances,” conveyed to me their messages of cheer and the
51
certainty that Hester had indeed not forgotten me. And, true to her
promise, a week before my liberty was to be restored, I was called to
the reception room to receive a visitor.
As I entered, my surprised gaze fell upon the only occupant, aside from
the ever alert and watchful matron on duty, an elderly lady of most
respectable, even pious aspect, gowned in sombre black silk. So
contrary was her appearance to that of the visitor I expected that I
hesitated, momentarily forgetting Hester’s parting admonition as I
gazed on the grandmotherly picture. As I stood hesitantly, she arose
from her chair, and coming toward me with outstretched arms,
exclaimed:
“Jessie, my darling c***d!”
The sharp eyes of the matron were on me.
“Hello, Aunt Mary,” I murmured as I mechanically returned her
embrace.
And so, under these curious circumstances, the Madame of a house of
prostitution interviewed a prospective inmate. Her eyes roved
incessantly over my body as we carried on our aimless conversation,
designed to fool the matron who sat idly watching us. I felt from the
first that I had found favour with my visitor, and her comments as to
how I had changed for the better since she “last saw” me and how nice I
looked, and how happy she was sure I would be when she took me to
live with her now that my dear, dear mama had passed away, gave me
the clue to my future and assured me that for the time being at least, it
was assured. “Cousin Francis” was eagerly awaiting my homecoming,
she said, and sent me her most affectionate regards.
Before leaving, she advised the superintendent that she would be at
the institution the morning of my release to see me safely home. I went
back to my ward in a regular daze, my thoughts in a confused whirl. It
52
was very difficult to imagine that nice old lady in the role of mistress of
a house of prostitution.
The long awaited day arrived at last.
At nine o’clock I was summoned to the superintendent’s office and the
usual formalities related to the discharge of inmates were fulfilled.
“Your aunt said that she would call for you at ten o’clock, Jessie. You
may go to your dormitory and pack your things,” she said kindly, after
concluding the customary harangue on the folly of a life of sin and the
rewards of virtue.
As I spread my few effects upon the narrow cot in the dormitory,
preparatory to wrapping them up in a bundle, a small group of friends
and companions gathered around, some to bid me an envious farewell
and others to extract promises from me to send them this or that from
the outside.
The hour sped by and almost before I realized it I was going down the
long stairway which led to the outer offices and freedom.
My benefactress was waiting in the superintendent’s office and
greeted me with a motherly embrace in keeping with our reserved
relationship. The superintendent conducted us to the outer door and as
it closed behind us I paused to glance back, hardly able to believe that
my freedom was an actual fact. As I did so, Madame Lafronde shook
my arm.
“Come on, girl! This damn place gives me the willies!” she exclaimed as
she hurried me down the steps to the street. She signalled a taxi and
within a few moments the institution which had been my home for
nearly three years receded in the distance and became at last only a
disagreeable memory.
53
Within the taxi, Madame Lafronde relaxed, and leaning back against
the cushions she extracted a packet of cigarettes from her purse. After
proffering me a cigarette which, unaccustomed to their use, I declined,
she lit one and puffed away abstractedly.
The taxi, in accordance with her indications, after travelling a dozen
blocks, slowed up and came to a stop. But we had not reached our
ultimate destination. A few steps away, waiting near the curb, was a
large black limousine. As we approached it on foot, a chauffeur sprang
out and opened the rear compartment and to my surprise and delight,
Hester stepped out and flung her arms about me. She was beautifully
gowned and her face was radiant with sincere joy at seeing me. I had
always thought Hester pretty, but I was hardly prepared for the
change a splendid wardrobe wrought in her appearance.
We did not tarry long and soon, ensconced in the luxurious privacy of
the big car, were again winding rapidly through the streets, Hester
and I babbling excitedly while Lafronde placidly blew long streamers
of smoke through her nostrils, interrupting us occasionally with some
questions or observation.
“Let’s see your legs, my dear.”
I giggled nervously as she coolly raised my skirts and eyed my legs
appraisingly.
“Um-m, very good, my dear, very nice legs, indeed. I was afraid Hester
might have exaggerated a little… and how about your bubbies, let’s see
what they’re like…” and an inquisitive and bejewelled hand passed
over my chest and after a brief exploration was withdrawn. “Ah, yes;
very nice legs and very nice bubbles. A fortune in them, my dear, if you
are wise.”
The ride ended before the portals of a large brownstone mansion in a
quiet street and shortly thereafter I was ushered into my new home. It
was a place of quiet elegance, soft plush carpets and tapestried walls. I
54
gazed about in wonder. There was nothing visible to the eye to mark
these circumspectly luxurious premises as an atelier of prostitution,
but I was soon to learn that things are not always as they seem, and
that within these sedate walls dramas of licentiousness such as I had
never seen were of nightly occurrence.
And thus did I cross the threshold of a new life, and the doors of the
past closed behind me.
55
CHAPTER 5
A small but furnished alcove with a tiled bath in connection was
waiting for me, and after I had examined it Madame Lafronde left
Hester and me together, saying that she would have a talk with me
later in the afternoon.
A maid appeared with a luncheon tray and as I ate, plying Hester with
questions between bites, I learned that Madame Lafronde’s “family
comprised eight other girls in addition to Hester and myself. I would
meet them later; they did not get up until after twelve, which
accounted for the silence and absence of movement I had already
noted.
When Madame Lafronde returned, her first request was that I strip
myself entirely so that she could examine my body. I did so with some
embarrassment, for though I had often enough exposed myself to boys
and men, the impersonal, appraising eyes of this strange old lady filled
me with a nervous dread that I might be found wanting in some
essential.
I was small of stature and feared that the absence of clothing might
accentuate the possible defect. However, to my vast relief, she gave
every evidence of satisfaction and nodded her head approvingly as I
turned around and around in obedience to her indications. When I had
replaced my clothing she shot question after question at me, until
every phase of my early and subsequent sexual life had been revealed.
To her questions I endeavoured to give frank and truthful answers,
regardless of the embarrassment which some of them evoked.
“Now, my dear,” she said, when the interrogating had been concluded,
“I want you to know that we’re all one big, happy family here. There
must be no jealousy or friction or petty animosities between girls. Our
gentlemen are very nice, but men are men, and a pretty, new face
always distracts their attention from older ones. I have a plan in mind
which fits you as though you were made for it. If you handle it rightly
you’ll be helping the other girls as well as yourself, and instead of
56
being jealous of you they’ll all have reason to be grateful. We’re all
here to make money and as it must come from the gentlemen our aim is
to get them to spend it and then come back and spend some more.
Never forget that.”
And Madame Lafronde explained the unique role I was to play, a role
which to a more mature mind than mine would have at once revealed
the astuteness and subtlety of the guiding genius behind this lucrative
business and which accounted for its success, measured in terms of
gold. Madame Lafronde was nobody’s fool.
In brief, she proposed to dangle my youthful prettiness before the
jaded eves of the clientele as a sort of visual aperitif, much as water
was placed before the thirsting Tantalus, in view, but just beyond
reach, the psychological effect of which would be to so whet their
passions that they would in the end, perforce, satisfy themselves with
such feminine fruit as was within their reach.
I was to tantalize masculine passion while leaving to others the duty of
satisfying them. This with respect to the regular “parlour clientele.
Exceptions would be made privately with certain special patrons who
were always able and disposed to pay well for favouritism.
Things were not as they had been before the war, explained Madame
Lafronde. Even this profitable business had suffered from the falling
economic barometer, and too many of the gentlemen who dropped in
were inclined to pass the evening sociably in the parlour. Of course,
between liquors consumed, tips to the girls, and various other sources of
minor revenues, their presence was desirable, but the real profits of the
business were garnered in the bedrooms, not in the parlour. It was a
case of a bird in a bedroom being worth five in the parlour.
As a sort of stimulant designed to inspire blase gentlemen with an
irresistible urge to make use of the bedroom service, I was to be rigged
up in an enticingly juvenile fashion and paraded constantly before
their eyes in a semi-nude state. Various pretexts and artifices would
57
ostensibly account for my presence and movements. I would carry a
tray of cigars and cigarettes, serve drinks, and be available for general
services and accommodations with but one single exception. I would
joke and chat with patrons, tell a naughty story now and then, even
permit them to fondle me within certain limits, but, because of my
youth (I was to be only fifteen years old!) my services were not to be
expected in a professional capacity.
I gasped at hearing that I was to play the part of a fifteen-year-old,
but Madame Lafronde insisted that it would not be difficult in view of
my small body and the fact that certain artifices in costume,
hairdressing and other details would be employed to help out the
illusion.
The first step was to call in a barber who trimmed my hair so that it
hung just below my ears. It was naturally wavy, and when the work
was finished it was quite apparent that Madame Lafronde had not
erred in assuming that short curls would lend a peculiarly c***dish
effect to my face. I gazed in the mirror with genuine surprise at the
transfiguration.
When the barber had gone Madame Lafronde ordered me to undress
again, and after taking certain measurements left the room to return
later with several garments and a box which on being opened
revealed a safety razor, soap and brush.
“We could have let the barber do this, too,” she commented dryly,
indicating the razor, “but maybe you’d rather do it yourself.”
“Do what?” I asked, looking at the razor in perplexity.
“Shave the pretty little curls off your peek-a-boo,” she answered, with
a gesture toward the dark shadow which was visible through the
texture of my single garment.
“What!” I expostulated. “Why… even girls fifteen years old have… !”
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“Shave it off,” she interrupted. “If you don’t know how, I’ll do it for you.”
“I can, I can!” I responded hastily. “I’ve shaved the hair under my arms
lots of times… only…” and I glanced around in confusion for, in addition
to Madame Lafronde and Hester, several girls had appeared and were
standing in the door watching me curiously.
“Go over by the window with your back to us and stand up, or sit down,
whichever you wish, if you’re afraid someone will see your love trap.
You’ll get over that before you’ve been here long.”
Without further protest I took the shaving equipment, turned my back
on the smiling assembly and sitting on the edge of a chair with my legs
apart I lathered and soaped the hair and shaved it off the best I could. I
had to go over the ground several times before the last prickly stubs
were finally removed, and when I stood up, much embarrassed, to let
Madame Lafronde view the results she expressed her approval and
suggested that I dust the denuded flesh with talcum powder.
The absence of the hair from its accustomed place caused me to feel
peculiarly naked, and I turned my gaze downward. The two sides of my
cunny stood out prominently like fat little hills, the crease between
them tightly closed as I stood with my legs pressed together.
I was now to don black hose of sheerest silk and a pair of tiny slippers
with exaggerated high Spanish heels. Around my legs, just above the
knees, fitted narrow scarlet garters, each adorned with a little silk
rosette. Next came an exquisite brocade coat or jacket of black velvet
into which was worked fantastic designs in gold thread.
“What about my bubbles?” I asked, as Madame Lafronde handed me
the garment. “Will I have to cut them off, too?”
A gust of laughter followed and I slipped on the loose-fitting coat. It
terminated at a point about halfway down my thighs, leaving a few
inches of naked flesh between its lower edge and the tops of my hose.
59
Fastening just below the breasts with three braided loops, it covered
my stomach all right, but from there down the folds hung loose and a
naked, hairless cunny would be exposed with any careless movement.
The last item of this bizarre costume was a tall, military style cap of
astrakhan, fitted with a small brim of shiny black leather and a strap
which passed under my chin. Madame Lafronde adjusted the cap on
my head at a rakish angle and stood back to view the effect.
I glanced at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Without undue
conceit I realized that I presented a chic picture, one which
undoubtedly fulfilled Madame Lafronde’s expectations, as was
attested to by the satisfied gleam in her shrewd old eyes, by Hester’s
enthusiastic felicitations, and by the half-admiring, half-envious looks
of the other girls who were watching silently.
From beneath the edge of the black astrakhan cap my hair hung loose
in short, crisp curls. The low bodice of the brocade jacket teasingly
revealed the upper halves of my breasts, while its wide and ample
sleeves displayed my arms to good advantage with every movement.
The jacket itself, fitting snugly around my waist, flared out sufficiently
to show my hips to good advantage. Further down, the sheen of glossy
silk with the brief variation in color provided by the scarlet garters
gave just the right touch to my legs, and the high-heeled slippers
completed the exotic ensemble.
The rest of the afternoon and evening Madame Lafronde devoted to
coaching and instructing me. The doors were open to visitors at nine
o’clock, but it was never until after eleven or twelve that gentlemen
returning from their clubs or other nocturnal entertainment began to
drop in in any considerable number, and from then on patrons came
and went, singly or in small groups, some to linger briefly, others to pass
an hour or two, or to remain all night.
I made my debut at eleven o’clock. With inward nervousness at first,
but with growing confidence as I observed the electrical effect my
60
entry made upon the half-dozen gentlemen who were lounging about
the salon in various attitudes of interest or indifference to the wiles of
the feminine sirens about them. As I crossed the room with my tray of
cigars and cigarettes and matches supported by a strap over my
shoulders the hum of conversation ceased as if by magic and every eye
was on me.
I approached a tall, well-dressed gentleman who was sitting on a sofa
with a girl on either side of him, and proffered my wares in a timid
voice. His startled gaze took in the picture before him and lingered a
moment on my legs. Shaking himself free from the arms of his
companions, he sat up.
“My dear, I never smoked a cigar in my life, but I’ll take all you have, if
you go with them!”
This was Madame Lafronde’s cue. Entering the room from a side door
where she had been waiting, she said:
“Dear gentlemen, I want to present a new member of our family to you.
This is Jessie. Jessie is here under peculiar circumstances. She is an
orphan and, strictly speaking, not old enough to be here in a
professional capacity. Though as you see, she is nicely developed, she is
in fact only fifteen years old and I am sheltering her here only because
of her orphaned condition. She is to make her living selling you cigars
and cigarettes, gentlemen, and serving you in all other possible ways…
except one.”
Madame Lafronde paused.
“In other words,” interrupted a tall, thin young man with a tiny
moustache who was indifferently stroking the silk-clad legs of a
damsel on his lap, “she can be only a sister to us. I knew she was too
good to be true the moment she came into this room.”
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A burst of laughter followed and Madame Lafronde, smiling,
answered:
“A sister… well… maybe just a bit more than a sister, gentlemen, but not
too much more!”
From across the room Hester beckoned to me.
“This is my friend Mr. Hayden, Jessie. He wants to know you,” she said,
indicating her companion.
I acknowledged the introduction.
“Bring us two Scotch and sodas, will you, honey?” added Hester.
Mr. Hayden spoke to me pleasantly and took a packet of cigarettes
from my tray, courteously declining the change I tendered him. As I
turned to execute Hester’s order, the man I had first addressed
detained me.
“Wait a moment, Sister. I’ve decided to take up smoking.”
I might add that the nickname “Sister” was unanimously adopted and
clung to me during the time I was in Madame Lafronde’s house.
The gentleman took a handful of cigars and reached toward his
pocket. As he did so, his eyes drifted down below the edge of the tray.
“Hold on! I’m making a tactical error!” he exclaimed, replacing all the
cigars but one. “I see right now that cigars should be purchased one by
one. You may bring me another when you come back!”
Nothing else was needed to start the ball of my popularity rolling and
soon the salon was echoing with hilarity and laughter as all called for
cigars and cigarettes at once, each trying, to keep me standing in front
of him as long as possible.
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If this kept up there would be substantial returns on the tobacco
concession, for half the profits were to be mine, according to Madame
Lafronde’s promise, and this in addition to whatever was given to me in
the nature of tips or gratuities. Flushed and happy, I ran from one to
another, replying to jokes and quips in a half-innocent, half-cynical
manner, calculated to fit the role of a fifteen-year-old ingénue.
As the evening wore on new arrivals appeared and I was instantly the
first object of their attention. Before long the pockets of my brocade
jacket were heavy with silver, I had replenished my tobacco stock
several times and received several generous tips for bringing in liquor,
and in addition, a gentleman had given me four shillings for being
permitted to feel my bubbles, “just in a brotherly way,” as he expressed
it.
What the effect of my presence was on the regular revenues of the
house I could not judge, for though there was a constant movement of
couples in and out of bedrooms I had no way of knowing whether this
was a normal or an increased activity.
With the advancing hours the movement gradually diminished and
by four o’clock the last guest had departed. The door was locked, the
girls ate a light luncheon and prepared to retire. It was then that
Madame Lafronde informed me that the bedroom service had showed
a decided increase, which increase she was fair enough to attribute to
my presence.
She was well satisfied and I surely had reason to be, for when the
money was counted up and the tobacco sales checked there remained
for me the sum of two pounds and eight shillings, which was duly
credited to me and would be at my disposition on request.
I was tired out; I had hardly slept the previous night, yet such was my
excitement that I did not feel sleepy and preferred to gossip with
Hester for an hour in my room. I had a hundred questions to ask. I
63
wanted to know about the nice-looking, gentlemanly Mr. Hayden, and
learned that he was one of Hester’s regular and most favoured friends.
He had been much interested in me, and Hester had unselfishly
confided to him that I might reservedly be at his disposition on some
later occasion, to which he had gallantly responded that in such an
event he would insist on having the two of us together. How good
Hester was, I thought, to be willing to share this nice man with me and
maybe risk my supplanting her in his affections. He had appealed to
me greatly, and there had been several others whom I would not have
been averse to doing something with.
“You made a tremendous sensation, darling,” said Hester. “You could
have a dozen room-calls. I heard what everybody said. But Lafronde is
right. The other girls would have been ready to scratch your eyes out.
There’s nothing makes them so mad as to have a new girl take their
regulars away from them. Did you notice that fellow who went with
me? He comes here every three or four nights. I guess every girl here
has had him, but now he always takes me. He’s got lots of money and .
he’s kind of nice, but, gee, he never has a hard-on and it takes about
half an hour of work to give him a stand. Sometimes I even have to put
the buzzer on him, but tonight, oh, baby, it was as stiff as a poker. I
jollied him about it and told him I bet it was thinking about you
instead of me. ‘My word,’ he said, ‘you’re a deucedly clevah mind
reader. That little tart did have a most extraordinary effect on me.
Wonder what the chawnces would be to secure her company for an
hour or two? I think that’s all bally rot about her virginal estate, don’t
you know!’ I told him to talk to Madame Lafronde and maybe it could
be arranged. That’s two of my regulars that have fallen for you already,
but I’m not jealous. You can have Bumpy if you want him. It takes too
long to make his cock stand up.”
I laughed.
“What did you mean, putting the buzzer on him?”
64
“The juice, the electric massage machine.”
“Electric massage machine?”
“Yes, electric massage machine. Don’t you know what an electric
massage machine is?”
“Of course I do. They use them for facials. But how… what… ?”
“Facials! Oh, baby, you don’t know the half. Wait… you’re tired out… I’ll
fix your bath water for you and after you’re bathed I’ll give you a
massage that will make you sleep like an infant.”
Hester ran into the bathroom and turned on the water. Then she went
to her room and came back with an entrancing little pink silk
nightgown, face cream, perfume, and a large leather-covered box.
While I lay splashing lazily in the tub, soaking in the pleasant warmth
of the foamy, scented water, she laid out the nightgowns and opened
the box to show the apparatus it contained and which was, in effect, an
electric vibratory massage machine fitted with a long cord for
attachment to an electricity outlet. There were several assorted pieces
in the box and from these Hester selected one fitted with rubber lips
which turned out in the form of a small cup.
When I had gotten out of the tub and dried myself I lay down naked
on the bed. Hester dipped her fingers in the jar of cream and passed
them lightly over my face, neck, breasts and limbs.
I thought suddenly of the peculiar aspect the shaving had given me in
a certain place and flipped a corner of the sheet over it. Without a
word Hester flipped it back and her hands were between my thighs,
softly spreading the cold cream over them and down my legs.
“You’re awful good to go to so much trouble for me, Hester,” I
murmured.
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“It’s nothing. You can do as much for me sometime,” she replied.
When she had finished anointing my body she connected the massage
machine. It began to hum and the next instant the rubber cup was
buzzing over my forehead, cheeks and neck. My flesh thrilled to the
refreshing stimulation and I lay still, enjoying it to the full. Gradually
the rubber moved down over my chest, between my breasts, then up
over one of them right on the nipple. I came out of my languid rest with
a bound. That bubbling, vibrating cup over the nipple of my breast was
awakening sensations quite remote to those of mere physical
refreshment.
Both my nipples stiffened up, the sensitive area around them puffed
out and radiations of sexual excitation began to flow through my body.
Laughing hysterically, I sat up and pushed the tantalizing device
away.
“Be still, will you? Lie back down!” expostulated Hester, giving me a
shove which tumbled me back over the pillow.
“But, Hester! That thing… its positively distracting! Don’t put it on my
bubbles again… I can’t stand it!”
Hester smiled.
“You’ll think its distracting before I finish with you. Keep quiet or
you’ll wake the girls in the next room.”
Down over my stomach, in widening circles, around and around, and
then back and forth moved the diabolical apparatus guided by
Hester’s hand. I had a premonition now of what was coming, and as it
slowly but surely crept downward until it reached the upper part of
the rounded elevation of my cunny, I clenched my fists and held my
breath.
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No sooner was it close enough to impart its infernal vibration to my
clitoris than tremors of sexual agitation began to shake my body. It was
simply irresistible; I could not have forestalled its action by any
conceivable exercise of willpower.
But I did not try. The fulminating intensity of the sensations which now
had me in their grip nullified any will or desire to thwart them. I threw
my head back, closed my eyes, and surrendered supinely. My legs
parted shamelessly beneath the insinuating pressure of Hester’s
fingers, and the humming, buzzing cup slid between them. Up and
down it moved, three, four, maybe half a dozen times, pressing lightly
against the flesh.
My organism, wrought up to the final pitch of excitation and unable to
withstand the infernal provocation longer, yielded, and in a second I
was gasping in the throes of sexual ecstasy.
When I recovered my breath, and in part my composure, I exclaimed:
“Hester! You… you… I could murder you! Fooling me with that thing!”
“Make you sleep good, honey, and keep you from having naughty
dreams,” she answered complacently, and she disconnected the device
and restored it to its container.
“Does that work on men like that, too?”
“Yes; we use it on them sometimes to give them a stand when they
either can’t get one or are too slow.”
“Well,” I commented, “I’ll say it gave me a stand I wasn’t expecting.”
She giggled, tucked the covers around me, kissed me on the cheek, and
turned out the lights.
“Sleep tight, honey. I’ll wake you in the afternoon.”
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She departed, leaving me alone to drowsily review the stupendous
transition which twenty-four hours had wrought in my life. Last night,
a hard, narrow cot in the drab and comfortless ward of a reformatory.
Tonight, the soft luxury of a beautiful bed with the seductive caress of
silk and fine linen about my body and all around me the material
evidences of a life of ease, gaiety, and luxury. Gradually my thoughts
became hazy and I drifted off into a pleasant, dreamless slumber from
which I did not awaken until nine or ten hours later.
68
CHAPTER 6
A week slipped by quickly, each night a pleasant repetition, without
any notable variations, of the one I have described. This was time
enough to assure Madame Lafronde that the experiment was a success.
The continued approval with which my semi-nude appearance was
received by patrons, together with certain other indications, was proof
that I really constituted an attraction which was imparting a new
popularity to the resort.
But it was not Madame Lafronde’s intention to limit my activities to
exhibitional purposes. She was already being importuned by
gentlemen whose interest in me was not to be resigned to mere optical
satisfaction and the subtle old procuress was but biding the time
necessary for these gentlemen’s inflamed fancies to get the best of their
financial perspectives. I was being reserved for the sensual delectation
of a half-dozen or so of her most exacting and best-paying customers.
To the rest, including the general run of parlour guests, I was to remain
only a visual aphrodisiac.
Into the ample pockets of my brocade jacket these more or less
credulous victims of my enticements and beguilings poured their
silver, eagerly taking advantage of such opportunities as I permitted
them to fondle me tentatively or superficially, bought my cigars and
cigarettes, tipped me generously for every trifling service, sighed, and
generally visited a bedroom with one of my companions where,
doubtless, evoking visions of my naked legs and other presumed
charms, they ravished me by proxy.
Of the patrons I subsequently served in a more intimate fashion, five
developed into “steadies,” that is, became exclusively mine, and came
with more or less regularity. A sixth, no other than the gentlemanly Mr.
Hayden, kept his promise to Hester and either by virtue of genuine
affection for her or actuated by a kindly sentiment to avoid wounded
feelings, insisted upon having both of us with him at the same time and
maintained an attitude of strict impartiality.
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I think Hester’s generous spirit would not have resented a surrender of
her priority to me, but though Mr. Hayden was one of the nicest men I
ever met, I was glad that his instincts of gallantry saved me from being
placed in the light of having distracted his attention from one who was
beyond doubt my best and sincerest friend. I have never found another
such.
Patrons like Mr. Hayden, unfortunately always in a minority, were the
bright and redeeming features of a life otherwise vicious and
degrading. They were the ones who, regardless of a girl’s lost social
status, always treated her with respectful consideration. Generous in
recompensing the efforts which were made to please them, they never
exacted arduous or debasing services, nor were they addicted to
unnatural vices which went beyond the pale of those sexual practices
ordinarily considered acceptable and legitimate.
To my lot fell the patronage of a Mr. Heeley, a gentleman of this
desirable category though with the minor disadvantage of being much
older and less attractive physically than Mr. Hayden. There was a Mr.
Thomas, middle-aged and wealthy, who had garnered his fortune in
Ceylon and who always had some interesting story to tell. There was
Mr. Castle and Mr. Wainwright, both of whom were addicted to
eccentricities of a peculiar and disagreeable nature. At first I protested
to Madame Lafronde that these two gentlemen were personages non
grata with me and insinuated that I would not be loathe to dispense
with their attentions. It was unequivocally impressed upon me that my
inclinations were quite secondary to those of wealthy patrons. “Do
whatever they want within the limits of endurance. Satisfy their
whims, fancies, even their aberrations if possible as long as they are
willing to pay accordingly. Humour them, please them, get the money
and keep them coming back as long as you can!” This was the
unwritten law in the world of prostitution.
Mr. Hayden was, I think, about thirty years old. I could easily have
become really infatuated with this pleasant-spoken, educated, and
cultured gentleman. We never knew exactly who he was with
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reference to his place in the outside world, nor even indeed that his
name was really Hayden, for it was not unusual that gentlemen
frequenting such places of entertainment as that provided by Madame
Lafronde prudently concealed their identities under fictitious names.
Nevertheless, there was no doubt that he was of the real gentility.
I liked him very much and I think the affection was reciprocated to an
even greater extent than was ever manifested, but he was of that
conscientious, kind-hearted type, disposed to go out of the way even at
personal inconvenience to avoid causing pain to others and he knew
that Hester adored him.
To Mr. Hayden fell the honour, if such it might be styled, of initiating
me into the real service of which I was now a recruit. My absence from
the salon accounted for the numerous inquiries with the old alibi “a
bad time of the month, don’t you know.” Hester and I and Mr. Hayden
enjoyed a little dinner by ourselves and thereafter repaired to Hester’s
room, where we disported ourselves light-heartedly for an hour,
romping and tumbling over the bed in good-natured abandon as the
wine we had imbibed warmed our blood and attuned our receptive
senses to lecherous ideas.
Mr. Hayden was a healthy, vigorous young man, a splendid example of
physical perfection. The sight of his clean-cut, well-kept body, and the
magnificently rigid and well-formed member which was disclosed
when he undressed sent the blood surging through my veins. I did not
know by what procedure he intended to make use of two women at the
same time, but imagined that he would probably take us in turn,
maybe changing from one to the other at intervals.
I waited expectantly for Hester to take the initiative. Inside, I was
fairly burning up. Though I had bathed most carefully but a short
while before, my cunny was wet with anticipation, my clitoris swollen
and pulsing. In excuse of this ardour was the fact that I had not been
with a man for three long years and during this sterile period there had
been no outlet for my passions except the one provided by my own
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nimble fingers, an occasional wet dream and, as I have related, the
orgasm effected by Hester’s so-called massage.
We lay down on the bed on either side of our male companion, Hester
and I both naked except for our slips, hose and shoes, which we
intended to leave on until done with our play and ready for sleep. Mr.
Hayden caressed us impartially for awhile, passing his hands over our
breasts, fingering the nipples until they stood up stiffly, and finally a
hand drifted down over each of the two cunnies. The contact of his
warm hand as it lay over mine with one of the fingers pressed lightly
within the cleft produced in me an effect which was almost sufficient
to put my orgiastic mechanism into immediate action. I literally had to
“clench” my nerves and strain my willpower to keep from coming. Had
he let his finger linger there a bit longer, or had he imparted the
slightest friction, my efforts to restrain orgasm would have failed then
and there.
But he removed it after a short interval without apparently having
observed my delicate condition, and straightening out on his back he
drew Hester across his body where, by urging her forward bit by bit, he
eventually got her straddled across his chest with her knees doubled
beneath her on either side of him. Her dark auburn curls were right at
his chin and it required no great imagination to divine that her cunny
was going to be licked French fashion.
“If he does that to her before my eyes I’ll cream despite anything I can
do to hold it back. I know I shall!” I thought to myself.
In the light of experience throughout subsequent years I confess this:
that the sight of another woman being Frenched by a man, or a woman
Frenching a man, reacts upon me more violently than any other
spectacle of a lewd nature. My senses are excited to a frenzy at the
sight of this act, and if I let myself go I can have an orgasm without
even touching myself, but simply through the impulse conveyed to the
genital system through the trajectory of the eye.
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Having accommodated Hester comfortably on his strong chest, Mr.
Hayden reached over and took me by the arm, manifesting by his
motions that I was to seat myself across his middle, impaled upon the
turgid emblem of masculinity, behind Hester. Obeying his wordless
indications I crouched over him, passing my arm around Hester and
clasping her plump bubbies in my hand. Then, gently, breathlessly, I
sank down until I felt the entire length of that glorious member
throbbing within the living sheath I was providing for it.
But, alas, to my consternation, barely had I perceived the contact of his
crisp hair on my naked cunny than my emotions, overriding all powers
of resistance, as though deriding my futile efforts to hold them in
abeyance, rebelling incontinently, loosed themselves and in a second I
was gasping, writhing and suspiring in a regular paroxysm of
passionate ecstasy.
As the reverberations gradually died away and my thoughts took on a
semblance of coherency, I was filled with mortification. What would
Mr. Hayden think of such amazing lubricity and precipitation? Hester,
surprised at first, had twisted around, and now burst into laughter.
“What happened?” she gasped.
“I don’t know!! I did it… I couldn’t help it!” I answered, shamefaced.
Mr. Hayden was also laughing.
“You’re a fast worker, Sister,” he said, his sides shaking, and realizing
that I was momentarily, at least, exhausted by the orgasm, he added
compassionately: “Better get off and rest a moment while Hester and I
catch up with you!”
I discharged myself and threw my still trembling body on the bed
beside them. With his hands against Hester’s knees Mr. Hayden
pushed her backward to take the place I had vacated and a moment
later his cock slid in between her legs. Crouching over him, supporting
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herself on her hands, Hester worked gently up and down on the
glistening shaft, alternating from time to time with a twisting, rolling
movement of her hips as she sank down upon his member, completely
hiding it from view.
As I watched this sensuous play the tide of my own passions began to
gather anew. Yielding to sudden impulse I inserted my hand between
Hester’s thigh and got my fingers around the base of the white column
which was transfixing her. With each of her downward lunges my
hand was compressed between the two bodies, and each time it was
compressed my own clitoris throbbed in sympathy.
Hester began to moan softly. A delicate color crept into her pretty
cheeks, and her movements became more vigorous. As I perceived the
more forceful pressure of her moist cunny crushing down upon my fist,
and the strong, regular pulsations in the hard flesh about which my
fingers were clenched, the fires of reawakened lust again blazed
within me. My sexual potency was back in full force.
In this opportune moment Mr. Hayden murmured something to Hester.
Instantly she ceded the post of honour, slipped forward, and again
crouched over his face. A second later I was on the throne she had
vacated, and with my arms embracing her from behind, was quivering
in response to the throbbing of the rigid shaft which penetrated me
and filled me with its soul-stirring warmth.
To the accompaniment of Hester’s low moans as a vigorous and active
tongue teased her organism into expression I gasped out my own
ecstasy and clung to her, half-fainting, while jet after jet of the hot
balsam of life flung itself against my womb.
I was no longer a novice. I had graduated from the chippy stage of
harlotry and was a full-fledged practitioner of the oldest profession. I
was now a professional prostitute.
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Mr. Hayden came regularly, adhering faithfully to his program of
impartiality, and his visits were interludes in which both Hester and I
forgot the sordid, commercialised circumstances under which we were
prostituting our bodies and enjoyed ourselves like healthy, robust
young a****ls.
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CHAPTER 7
The next patron to whom my companionship was pledged by the
astute Madame Lafronde was Mr. Heely. Mr. Heely had been until now
what was termed an occasional parlour visitor. He drank little and had
never taken a girl upstairs, but he was very liberal with gratuities and
it was suspected that he was more than well-to-do. He was a man
somewhat between fifty-five and sixty, very courtly and dignified, a
gentleman of the old school.
Until my advent in the bordello he had, on the occasion of his rather
infrequent visits, confined himself to sitting quietly in a corner, a silent
onlooker as a rule, sipping an occasional peculiar combination of
liquor which was mixed in accordance with his own instructions.
Sometimes he would engage a girl in conversation and after he had
departed the subject of the conversation would be reported with
considerable amusement. The nice old gentleman could find nothing
more interesting to discuss with a half-naked girl than politics,
economics and post-war social problems!
Nevertheless, the rewards which were falling to girls who were alert
enough to accord him courteous hearing were sufficiently generous to
have attracted Madame Lafronde’s unerring eye, and she had him
tabulated for future attention.
Now I had observed a more than casual interest in Mr. Heely’s attitude
toward me in the course of my ambulation about the salon, and had
perceived the covert squeeze he always gave my hand as he pressed a
liberal tip into it after selecting the single cigar he invariably tucked
away in his pocket. Consequently, it was with no great surprise that on
being called downstairs early one evening to the little private room
which Madame Lafronde reserved for confidential business, I found
Mr. Heely with her and learned that I was the subject of the interview.
“Dear Mr. Heely has taken a fancy to you, c***d. If it were anyone but
him, I would positively not consider the matter for a moment. But Mr.
Heely is an honourable gentleman, my c***d. He knows your… ah…
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untarnished condition, my dear, and he will be quite contented to… ah…
enjoy your companionship without encroaching on your… ah… virginal
integrity. In fact, my dear, Mr. Heely doesn’t care for the sophisticated
type, and it was exactly your… ah… so apparent maidenly innocence
which intrigued his… ah… admiration. Hereafter, my dear, you will be at
liberty to receive Mr. Heely any evening he wishes to call on you. You
may let him select one night each week.”
Mr. Heely bowed courteously.
“But I hope my attentions will not be distasteful to Miss Jessie,” he
interposed gently. “Perhaps we should consult her first before coming
to any definite understanding. I assure her, and you also, Madame, that
I will be most considerate in my demands, and will endeavour to
reward each of you in a suitable manner for your kindness. Do you
think you could care for me as a good friend?” he added anxiously,
turning to me.
Madame Lafronde’s peculiar words had filled me with amazement. I
did not know what to make of the conversation. Mr. Heely was
watching me with an intent, almost supplicating look on his face. I
glanced uncertainly at Madame Lafronde. As I did so, the lid of her left
eye descended slowly. Her face was solemn, impassive.
“Yes, Sir,” I answered, “I’m sure I could care for you. Very much indeed,
Sir.”
The alliance was pledged over three tiny glasses of wine and it was
agreed that the following evening I was to be at Mr. Heely’s disposition
and thereafter the same night each week.
As soon as the interview was concluded I rushed upstairs to find
Hester. Into her attentive ear I poured the details of the mysterious
contract. My mystification was so genuine that she nearly burst with
laughter.
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“But what does he want with me, what does he expect me to do?” I
begged.
“The old fool has taken it for gospel truth that you’re only fifteen years
old and that you’ve never had a cock in you,” she answered finally,
wiping her eyes. “He’ll be a regular gold mine. I had one like that once.
He preached religion to me and sucked me off between sermons. I’ll bet
all you’ll have to do with that man will be to let him go down on you.
Those old fellows always want to do that. You’ll have to pretend it’s the
first time, act ashamed, take on, cry about it afterwards a little and,
baby, will he fill your stocking with bank notes!”
How different people were in real life to what they seemed, I reflected,
as the picture which Hester’s words evoked passed before my mind’s
eye. That dignified, cultured, respectable, elderly gentleman going
down on me! It was too bizarre, too preposterous. It didn’t seem possible.
Hester broke in on the train of thoughts which were passing through
my head.
“Really, darling, you’re lucky. Imagine having something like that
supposed Italian count wished on you.”
“I heard Lafronde tell Rhoda she could chase him if he got too rough
with her.”
This count, real or alleged, constituted something of a house scandal.
He had the whipping mania, and though Rhoda submitted to him
voluntarily, the pain he inflicted on her caused her to shriek in a way
which alarmed everyone within hearing.
“I think she’s half in love with the crazy brute. Do you know what he
does to her? He puts her across his knees just like a baby, and whips
her on the bare bottom with one of her slippers. He keeps her bottom
black and blue.”
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“What in the world does he do it for? What possible pleasure can he
possibly get from hurting her?”
“Oh, what do any of them do funny things for? It gives him a hard-on, I
suppose. Imagine having a man whip you like that and then wanting
to fuck you afterwards.”
Madame Lafronde opened the door and came in.
“You’ll have to get up early tomorrow morning and go shopping with
me,” she said. “Mr. Heely has given some very specific instructions
about your wearing apparel. Your present mode of dress is not in
keeping with his ideas as to what nice girls should wear. And…” she
continued dryly, glancing at a pencilled list in her hand, “he has
provided the funds necessary to renovate your wardrobe.”
As a result of the shopping expedition which was duly effected the
following day, I found myself in possession of some new clothes which,
though of the finest and most expensive material, were so
incongruously at variance with the ambient in which they were to be
worn that I could only look at them with amazement.
There were three black silk dresses with cream-coloured lace cuffs
and bodices, all of the same general type, but varying in minor details
of style and trimming. They were very beautiful, but of a style suitable
for extremely young misses, and reached barely to my knees.
Underwear there was in profusion, but instead of the slithery,
diaphanous tinted silk I would have selected, it was of the finest
English linen and cambric; slips, petticoats, and panties with little
bands of lace around their edges, and all snow-white. There were two
pair of little, round-toed, low-heeled patent leather pumps, and a long
narrow box filled with black silk hose.
As we unpacked the purchases Madame Lafronde said:
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“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot to tell you, my dear, that your new gentleman
has a special abhorrence of rouge, lipstick and face powder. He prefers
nature in the raw. So you may abstain from employing your usual
artifices on the occasion of his visits.”
I nodded my head in assent. My mind was still floundering in a maze of
contradictory whys and wherefores.
“Can you tell me, please, just what that man expects of me?”
“My girl, I haven’t the slightest idea. But I don’t doubt he’ll treat you
kindly. Men of his age often have very curious whims and ideas. My
experience is that it’s profitable to cater to them. Use your brains; find
what pleases him, and act accordingly. If the screwy old fool thinks he
has found a fifteen-year-old innocent running around naked in a
whorehouse don’t destroy his illusion. It will pay dividends. But
remember this: he made the proposition himself that he would respect
your alleged purity and right now he intends to live up to it. But if he
runs true to form, before very long he’ll be itching to get his pecker
between your legs. And after he’s fucked you two or three times it will
be good-bye Mr. Heely. Now I’m only speaking in the light of
experience. There are exceptions to every rule, and he might be one of
them. So use your brains, girl, use your brains. This is your chance to
show what you can do.”
At eight o’clock I bathed preparatory to dressing for the evening. One
of the pretty little black frocks was laid out on the bed waiting for me,
together with the c***dish underwear, the silk hose and the patent
leather pumps.
Having a little time to spare I decided to get out a jar of depilatory
cream I had bought that day with the idea of using it in preference to a
razor. To my great satisfaction it removed the hair thoroughly and
easily without leaving the suggestion of a stubble which, try as I might,
I had not been able to eliminate entirely with a safety razor.
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The pubic mound and the sides of my cunny felt as smooth and velvety
to the touch as a baby’s skin. According to the information which
accompanied the preparation, hair would not reappear for some time
as it was destroyed clear down to the roots. This would be a great
convenience, as the task of shaving frequently was growing irksome.
When Mr. Heely appeared promptly at the specified hour of ten, I was
all ready for him, waiting demurely in my room, dressed in a little girl’s
silk frock which barely reached my knees, my hair neatly combed
back and tied with a ribbon, and my face sedately free of any artificial
colouring or embellishment. There had been much giggling and
laughter when earlier in the evening I had paraded this ensemble
before the eyes of my companions. Even Madame Lafronde had
laughed.
In one hand Mr. Heely carried a large bouquet of beautiful hothouse
flowers, in the other a square package containing a box of delicious
candied fruit confections. I thanked him for his gifts, took his hat and
coat, and arranged the flowers on my little table.
What should I say to him? What should I do? The thoughts buzzed in
my head as I toyed with the flowers to gain time to decide, and ended
by doing nothing except sitting down before him to wait for him to
begin a conversation.
Considering our previous speculations and Hester’s suppositions the
visit simmered down to what constituted almost ludicrous simplicity
and naiveté. Mr. Heely did absolutely nothing more than sit in my
room and talk, for the most part on generalized subjects, departing
from these orthodox themes only now and then to pass compliments
upon my appearance and conduct in his dignified, courtly way. He
manifested pleasure at the good taste with which my wardrobe had
been selected, and seemed to feel that I was now dressed in a seemly
and befitting manner. He stayed for about two hours.
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When he arose to go, he took my hand and pressed a kiss lightly upon
the back of it. As he lowered it a folded bank note was resting in my
palm. I did not want to look at it in his presence, so did not know until
after he had gone the value of it. Before bidding me good-night he
said:
“May I have the pleasure of calling upon you again next Friday, my
dear?”
“Certainly, Mr. Heely, I’ll be very happy to have you,” I replied.
Not until the door had closed behind him did I straighten out the
folded piece of currency. Before my surprised sight was a five-pound
note. I could hardly believe my eyes. Surely the good old man was out
of his mind.
Straightway I rushed to find Madame Lafronde, laid the money before
her and told her exactly what had transpired. She listened, smiling
cynically, and pushed it back toward me.
“It’s yours, girl. I’ve already gotten mine. Take it if you want to spend it.
If you don’t I’ll put it away for you.”
“All of it?” I gasped.
“Certainly. Now just use your head, girl, and there’ll be plenty more
where that comes from. I’ll get my share, and you may keep all you get
from him. Wait a moment…” she called, as I turned to leave after
thanking her, “here’s some more advice for you. Don’t brag about your
good fortune to the other girls. Keep it to yourself. That old green-eyed
monster is always lurking around, waiting for a chance to make
trouble. Don’t tell others things that will make them envy you.”
How deeply these words struck home could only be guessed by one
familiar with the circumstances of my past disgrace which had come
about under the very conditions against which she was now warning
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me. Then and there I resolved to keep such good fortune as might come
my way carefully hidden from envious eyes in the future.
As far as Mr. Heely was concerned, I ceased for the moment to bother
my head with trying to fathom his purposes. If he was willing to pay me
five pounds for dressing up like a doll and listening to him for a couple
of hours I had no reason for complaint. Both Hester and Madame
Lafronde were of the opinion that he would eventually want to do
something besides talk, and in this they were right in a sense, but his
conduct never degenerated into anything of an obnoxious nature.
Indeed, his ingeniousness was almost pathetic, and I often felt a twinge
of conscience at the imposition which was being practiced upon him.
But I salved it with the thought that it would be more painful to him to
be disillusioned than to be deceived. He derived a certain happiness
from the strange association, and it doubtless filled some lonely space
in his heart.
On his second visit he asked permission to sit on a cushion at my feet, a
request which was of course granted, although for the moment I was
mystified. A bit later the circumstance of the extremely short dress
flashed over me and the suspicion which it engendered was verified
when I observed an occasional covert glance being directed between
my legs.
From this time on I was more careless as to how I sat, but even in this the
kindly old gentleman had frustrated his own wishes by having
provided me with panties which were so substantially made as to
constitute an effectual barrier to the eye.
Slowly but progressively his familiarities advanced as the visits
continued. The sitting on a cushion before my knees reminded me of
Hester’s predictions. It brought his face conveniently close, and I
wondered… but nothing came of it. Later, he came to seating me on his
lap. This provided me with an opportunity to satisfy my curiosity on
another point which I had not been able to determine.
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Masculine wearing apparel of present times is deficient in one
particular. It is prone to reveal in a rather frank manner a certain
physical condition to which men are at times subject, one which does
not, on such occasions, escape the observant feminine eye. I had never
noticed this condition in Mr. Heely, a circumstance which intrigued
my curiosity.
Furthermore, his continued liberality was beginning to inspire me with
a desire to show my gratitude in some form. It stood to reason there was
something he wanted, some inner wish which perhaps he himself had
not fully defined, or else was too timid and reticent to express.
And so, partly to satisfy my own curiosity, and partly actuated by a
really unselfish wish to give him something in return for his generosity,
I decided to encourage him a little more actively, even though this was
contrary to Madame Lafronde’s counsel.
It was very difficult to convince myself that he was taking this farcical
“make-believe-lady” comedy seriously. How could he possibly think I
was chaste and innocent, living as I was in a house of prostitution and
associating with harlots? It hardly seemed possible that a man of his
age and experience could be so credulous.
Surely he was, like myself, just pretending, and finding in the pretence
some peculiar psychic compensation beyond my comprehension.
Surely he must know in his heart that it was all sham and fraud.
I had observed that his gaze was frequently on my legs. There are men
to whom the feminine leg is almost a fetish. Also, I had not forgotten
the floor-sitting inclinations. The next time he came after I had made
my resolution I sat on his lap, and as he talked I worked and fumbled
through the texture of my dress at my garter which I had purposely
tightened until it compressed my leg unduly.
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“Mr. Heely,” I murmured plaintively, “I wonder if you could fix my
garter for me. The buckle is so stiff I can’t loosen it and the garter is
almost cutting my leg in two.” So saying, I drew my skirt up in the most
casual manner, exposing the garter, the top of my hose and a tiny bit of
flesh above. “Look,” I continued, “it’s making a regular ring around my
leg!” I pulled the garter toward my knee and turned down the upper
part of my hose. There was a purple indentation around the leg.
Mr. Heely was instantly all compassion.
“My dear little girl,” he exclaimed, “why didn’t you speak of it before,
Why, this thing is so tight it’s cutting off the blood circulation. We
must open the buckle and lengthen the elastic.”
As he spoke, his fingers tenderly caressed the puckered flesh. He
slipped the garter down over my knee and off my leg. It took him but a
moment to pry open the buckle and lengthen the band, whereupon he
replaced the garter and smoothed my hose back into place.
“How about the other one? Is it tight? Perhaps we’d better fix it, too.”
“I wish you would,” I replied. “It hurts my fingers to open those
buckles.”
My other leg was laid bare above the knee and the second garter
received his attention. He spent several minutes rubbing the flesh to
restore the impeded circulation, adjusted the garter and put my dress
down over my knees.
“You’re so kind to me, Mr. Heely, I fear I shall never be able to repay
you.”
“Why, Jessie, dear,” he answered, obviously pleased, “just being near
you is quite payment enough. I have lived a very lonely life, my dear,
and these are happy hours for me. I only wish they were half as
pleasant for you as they are for me.”
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What could I do with a man so ingenious and innocent that he refused
to rise to such bait? It was not sufficient that I sit on his lap and let him
play with my garters. Either he was the world’s prize simpleton or he
didn’t, in truth, want anything from me. I decided to make a bolder
effort.
“Indeed they are pleasant for me, Mr. Heely! I feel so comfortable with
you. I like to sit on your lap this way. Sometimes… sometimes, though, I
get feelings when I’m sitting on your lap that I don’t understand
myself…”
I felt him start slightly.
“What kind of feelings, my dear?”
“Oh, I don’t know… they’re hard to describe… kind of trembly, warm
feelings that go all through me. Like just now, when you were rubbing
my leg…”
“Are they pleasant feelings, dear?” he asked huskily.
“Oh, yes! Sometimes I think they are naughty feelings, and then again I
think they can’t be bad when they’re so nice. Do you think they are
bad feelings, Mr. Heely?” I continued, watching him covertly for his
reactions.
“My dear c***d,” he replied finally, taking one of my hands between
his and squeezing it, “I hardly know how to answer you. Madame
Lafronde told me, if I remember correctly, that you are fifteen years
old. At that age the promptings of Nature are to be accepted as an
entirely normal manifestation of a healthy body, I would imagine. I
have, I must confess, often doubted the prudence of Madame
Lafronde’s course in bringing you into surroundings and influences
which I fear will tend to corrupt your thoughts. I wish…” he continued
sadly, “that it were possible for me to remove you from this
questionable atmosphere, but if I were to suggest such a thing my
86
motives would undoubtedly be questioned. So all I can do, my dear, is
to offer you such counsel and advice as my more mature years may
qualify me to give. I have never had any daughters of my own, and
though I was once married, my wife was taken from me while we were
both quite young. So now, in my old age, I have no one to hold on my
knee but little Jessie.”
“Why, you’re not old at all, Mr. Heely!”
He raised my hand, which he was still holding, to his lips and kissed it. I
was not so hardened as to be unmoved by his pathetic words, and I
understood now for the first time with some degree of clarity, the exact
situation.
Mr. Heely’s interest in me was unselfish in that it was not actuated by
the desire to play any fantastic sexual game, but rather by the
promptings of the vague and unsatisfied longings of a man who has
lived a repressed and virtuous life, and who, in the eventide of his days,
realizing that something vital has been missed, gropes belatedly and
blindly for that intangible sense of fulfilment which can only come
through bodily and spiritual union with the opposite sex. Too late he
had found a compliment which could have satisfied the longings he
himself would probably have refused to recognize as merely physical,
he must now warm the fibres of his being with the dying embers of a
fire disguised as paternal. This he could do without suffering the loss of
self-respect or at the sacrifice of dignity.
If I chose to continue accepting his bounty indefinitely without
thought of compensating him in any way other than by dressing to suit
his fancy and playing maidenly innocence, I could do so. He would
never make any sexual advances toward me except those of the
mildest and most indirect nature.
But I was not without conscience, nor did I lack an elemental spirit of
gratitude. The man had been both kind and generous to me, and
without hesitating long I made up my mind to find ways to provide this
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gentle soul with an occasional moment of happiness flavoured with
just that degree of lubricity which would find an echo in his being, and
leave him with a few soft memories with which to dispel the loneliness
of his heart.
During the week which elapsed before his next visit I gave
considerable thought to the subject, casting about in my mind for some
formula which would fit the peculiar circumstances. Various ideas
were entertained and discarded as unsuitable. But one afternoon there
chanced to cross my thoughts the recollection of Mr. Peters, the
watchmaker who had boarded with us when I was a c***d. In a vague
way, Mr. Heely reminded me of Mr. Peters. He was far more cultured
and refined, but there was a certain similarity of characters which
might have been much more pronounced had their social and
educational status been parallel.
Submerged in memories of the past which the thought evoked I saw
myself again a c***d of eleven, slipping surreptitiously into Mr. Peters’
room to be masturbated while I stood between his knees holding my
little dress up. Again I saw his congested face and the tiny beads of
perspiration whichtestified to the vibrant emotions he must have
experienced vicariously through manual stimulation of my body. Had
he not actually paid me to let him masturbate me and given other
evidences of pleasure in realizing the act? And it had certainly caused
me more pleasure than annoyance.
And mentally I began setting the stage for Mr. Heely’s next visit.
So it came to pass that after the customary exchange of banalities had
been effected, I set about immediately to warm the atmosphere
preparatory to the course I had elected to follow with Mr. Heely.
“Mr. Heely,” I began diffidently, “you never have seen all the pretty
things you had Madame Lafronde buy for me. They’re so pretty they
make my heart beat faster every time I look at them, and then I think
of you.”
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His face glowed with pleasure.
“I thought I’d seen all of them, my dear,” he answered, fingering the
hem of my dress. “I was just thinking today that perhaps you needed
some new frocks. Madame Lafronde exercised very good taste in her
selections and these black silk dresses become you wonderfully.”
“I don’t mean the dresses alone,” I murmured, essaying a bit of bashful
confusion. “There were other things, beautiful things; you’ve never seen
them at all, Mr. Heely.”
“Ah, you mean underthings, my dear. Quite true, I didn’t see them, but
if they pleased you that is all that is necessary.”
“I never had such beautiful things in all my life, Mr. Heely. Some of
them have got the prettiest lace trimming, it looks just like handwork.
Hester, my friend, says it’s machine-made lace, but I want to show you,
Mr. Heely, and see if you don’t think it’s handmade.”
Without waiting for his answer I slipped from his knees and went to my
clothes chest, extracted from among the garments stored herein a pair
of dainty cambric panties, around the legs of which were attached
narrow bands of expensive lace. Thrusting the intimate garment into
his hands, I continued to expiate on the quality and beauty of the
material.
“Don’t you think that’s handmade lace, Mr. Heely?”
“Really, I’m hardly qualified to say, my dear,” he replied, as he
gingerly fingered the garment. “All I can say is that it seems to be well
made, but whether by hand or machine I cannot say.”
“The ones I’ve got on are even prettier, Mr. Heely. I don’t mind if you see
them on me. I want you to see how pretty they are and how well they
fit me.”
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So saying, I raised my dress until a goodly portion of lace filigree and
cambric panty leg, to say nothing of quite a bit of flesh, was revealed.
Slowly I pivoted around on my toes so that Mr. Heely might judge both
the dainty workmanship of the garment, and in addition such physical
allurements as might catch his eye.
His face flushed slightly, and he half-averted his gaze, but his next
words assured me that I had not missed the mark at which I had aimed.
“My c***d, it is your pretty limbs which lend beauty to the garment. I
have never seen a more charming picture.”
Visibly affected, he extended his arms and drew me again upon his lap.
His arm prevented my dress from falling into place, and as I made no
effort to adjust it I found myself seated across his knees with my legs
exposed to the tops of my stockings and higher. I laid an arm over his
shoulder and cuddled against him.
Soon I felt a hand lightly caressing my knee. It moved tenderly back
and forth over the silken surface of my hose. I lay quietly with my head
against his shoulder, my eyes half-closed. The hand moved higher and
I sensed the tremor of its touch in a timid caress which dwelt a moment
upon the bare flesh above the stocking. It receded downward to the
knee, and after a brief hesitation again advanced until finally the
palm lay cupped over the rounded curve of bare flesh. His other hand
meanwhile passed under my arm, lay quietly and unobtrusively over
one of my breasts.
Seated thus, with nothing but the thin material of my panties and his
own garments between the sensitive areas of our respective bodies I
would have easily perceived anything in the nature of a muscular
reaction to the erotic incitation to which Mr. Heely was now being
subjected.
That there was none confirmed my suspicion that either through
physical weakness or possibly a purely mental inhibition he was
incapacitated sexually in the more material sense of the word. For him
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naught remained but such secondary exultations as might have their
birth in psychic stimulation, the last dispensation of benevolent old
Mother Nature who, tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, concedes
that minor consolation, a measure of bliss in the mere presence of
contemplation of pleasure through the awakening of an echo, or the
touching of a responsive chord in our sensibilities.
Certain now of my ground, I advanced boldly.
Snuggling closer to him, and tightening my clasp about his shoulder, I
murmured in a low voice:
“Mr. Heely, you have been so good to me, there is something I must tell
you. I’m awfully ashamed to, but I think you should know, so you can
tell me what to do. There is no one else I can ask, I just couldn’t speak of
it to anyone else but you…”
His hand clenched about the flesh of my leg.
“What is it, Jessie, dear? I can’t imagine anything you could tell me
which should cause you to feel ashamed. As you know, I want you to
feel perfectly free to tell me anything that troubles you.”
“Oh, Mr. Heely, when you know what it is, you may be terribly
shocked, and not care for me anymore. I’m so ashamed to tell you I don’t
know whether I can get up the courage or not…”
I dabbed at my eyes with a tearful gesture.
“But, my little Jessie!” exclaimed the now quite perturbed Mr. Heely, “I
assure you from the depths of my heart that there is nothing,
absolutely nothing which would lessen my regard for you. It hurts me
that you can even entertain such a thought!”
“Oh, Mr. Heely!” And here my sobs must have been quite convincing in
their rendition. “You think I’m a nice girl, and I’m not! I have the most
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terrible longings when I’m with you, sometimes I can’t sleep at all after
you’ve gone, and other times I have dreams, oh, such dreams, they wake
me up and I lie in the dark thinking, and it gets worse until, finally,
well, I just have to… have to… !”
I paused, and after waiting a long moment for me to continue, Mr.
Heely whispered tensely:
“Have to… have to what, dear?”
“Oh, don’t make me say it! You must guess… without my putting it in
words… I don’t want to do it… they say it ruins a girl’s health… but I just
can’t sleep until I make that feeling go away! Now, don’t you hate me,
Mr. Heely?”
The tension of his hand on my leg relaxed, and the hand moved gently
back and forth over the flesh. I peeped at him through my eyelashes;
his face was flushed.
“My dear little baby,” he murmured in a strained voice, “and you
thought telling me this would lessen my regard for you? Don’t you
remember that I told you the other night that certain emotions and
impulses in healthy young bodies were quite natural? Of course, I
never dreamed that I was unintentionally contributing to them, but I
still don’t think it is serious enough to upset yourself about, except
insofar as your rest and sleep is concerned. That…” he added in a
troubled voice, “is something we’ll have to think about.”
“Then you don’t think I’m bad for having those feelings, Mr. Heely?”
“Nonsense, c***d! Every normal person has gone through the same
experience in the period of adolescence. But you must exercise selfcontrol and not fall into habits which will undermine your health.”
“But… but… Mr. Heely, if I don’t do that, it happens anyway while I’m
asleep! When I wake up, it’s too late to stop it from happening!
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“Oh, Mr. Heely there is something… I think… I know… would be good for
me. It would sooth my nerves and take that feeling away… if only… but
how can I ask you such a thing!”
“How can you continue to question my willingness to do anything in
my power for you, my little Jessie?” the poor man insisted
reproachfully. “If I am in any way to blame for a condition which can
only be relieved by discontinuing my visits I’ll have to make the
sacrifice. Do you think it would be better for you if I didn’t come?” he
asked anxiously.
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Heely. That wouldn’t keep me from thinking of you; it
would only make things a hundred times worse!”
“What did you have in mind then, my dear?” he asked, vastly relieved.
“Speak frankly; I’ll not be offended!”
“Oh, Mr. Heely, it’s something… it really happened in a dream once. I
felt so much better that way than when I… you know what I mean… and
the bad feeling didn’t come back for a long time, but…” and I hid my
face against his shoulder, “it’s dreadful to ask you such a thing!”
“Let’s consider that after we know what it is!” he urged tensely.
“If you… if you… oh, Mr. Heely… it sounds so terrible… but if you would… if
you would just put your hand there where the feeling starts… if you
would just put your hand there for a moment each night before you
leave… I know the feelings would finish and go away and I wouldn’t
have to do that in the night!”
A tremor passed through his body, his arms gripped me convulsively,
and though he spoke with forced calmness, I knew he was in exquisite
torment.
“You think that would calm your nerves?” he asked in an unsteady
voice.
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“I feel sure it would… I know it would… if you wouldn’t mind doing it!”
“Shall we try it tonight?”
“Yes, yes!” I whispered.
“Now?”
“Yes!”
So realistically had I enacted my self-imposed role of ingenuous
impudicity that, u*********sly, it had quite taken hold of my own
imagination, and for the moment I was actually living the part I had
assumed.
As I slipped from his lap I distinctly felt a tremor in my own knees, and
the warm glow of sexual excitation was permeating my body. I had
“acted” myself into a real heat.
With trembling fingers I undid my panties and without troubling to
remove my dress lay down on my back upon the bed. Shielding my
eyes with a forearm and in a fever of anticipation I awaited his
approach.
He rose from his chair and sat down on the edge of the bed by my side.
He hesitated uncertainly for a moment and then slowly inserted his
hand up under my dress. Seeing that he had not the assurance or
temerity to throw the dress back and expose my body, and having
succeeded in working myself up to a degree in which my own
organism was now imperatively demanding satisfaction, I reached
down and pulled up the dress myself, revealing my cunny which just
that morning had received fresh depilatory attentions.
Just as an electric current is transmitted from one metal object to
another by contact so does that mysterious force called sexual
exultation communicate itself from one body to another under
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favourable circumstances. I had deliberately induced an erotic tension
in this man such as he probably had not experienced in years. I had
been actuated by kindly rather than lewd motives for, as a matter of
fact, I had never felt the slightest sexual inclination toward him. Now,
having succeeded by my artifices in exciting his sterile passions to an
exquisite pitch, I found myself caught in my own trap.
A moment or two after I pulled up my dress I felt his hand on my
cunny. I separated my legs a bit wider, lay back, closed my eyes, and
prepared to yield myself up to the pleasurable sacrifice. I sensed my
clitoris, now excited and swollen, pulsing impatiently in anticipation. It
wanted to be rubbed and rubbed vigorously. But as I waited
expectantly there came no motion in the hand which lay firmly, but
inactively pressed against it. I waited a long minute and then moved
my hips suggestively once or twice. The hand still lay motionless over
the pubic mound with the fingers, likewise motionless, resting lightly
along the extension of the crevice below.
It was tantalizing. Didn’t this man know anything at all? I wriggled my
hips again, once, twice, several times. I squeezed my thighs together,
compressing his fingers between them, and still that hand remained
impassively quiet.
The tension in my nerves was now such as to render further delay
unendurable. I seized his hand in mine and forcibly imparted a rubbing
motion as I pressed it harder against my clitoris. Under this friction and
pressure the current of erotic sensation began to generate swiftly.
Having set his hand on the proper frictional course I released it and lay
back again to savour the ravishing caress until the mounting
sensations attained their maximum and, like a bursting rocket,
exploded and hurled their melting fires through my body.
Mr. Heely was all tenderness and solicitude as he hovered over me, nor
was it difficult to assure him that I now felt immensely relieved and
was certain of a peaceful sleep and rest.
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Needless to say, the “treatments” were incorporated regularly as a
preventative of further nocturnal disquiet, and thus, by the simple
expedient of inducing the kind-hearted man to think he was
safeguarding my health and morals by masturbating me once a week, I
found a way to warm the blood in his aged veins and recompense him
in a small way for his generosity.
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CHAPTER 8
I had been with Madame Lafronde about three months when the
patronage of Mr. Thomas, another well-to-do but also middle-aged
gentleman was steered my way by the astute old lady.
Things had run along in a pleasant manner; I had gotten along very
well with Madame Lafronde. She seemed to take a genuine interest in
my welfare, and some of the girls who had at first treated me with a
certain coolness, doubtless inspired by the fear that patrons might be
tempted from them by my juvenile coquetteries, had been won over
and were now cordial and friendly.
Mr. Thomas was too much a man of the world to be at all deceived on
the matter of my alleged innocence, but beyond passing a few halfcomical, half-cynical observations, he did not dwell on the subject.
Although this gentleman was fairly well along in years, he was hale
and robust and had no physical deficiencies. My relations with Mr.
Thomas were so entirely normal, or so purely ethical, if I may use the
term, that there is little to tell which would be of interest.
Like Mr. Heely, he was a single man, but there the similarity ended. He
had engaged my companionship for one quite specific purpose, and
between times regaled me with piquant accounts of amorous
adventures during his younger days in Ceylon. With apparently no
qualms of conscience to disturb him, he told me of having fucked little
native girls of eight, nine and ten years of age, of having two or three of
them in bed with him at the same time, and of other salacious
combinations.
I say he regaled me with these stories “between times” because it was
his regular and unvarying procedure to do it to me twice on each of his
visits. He was entitled, by virtue of an exorbitant fee paid for my
companionship, to pass the entire night, but he never stayed after the
termination of the second act. He arrived generally around ten o’clock,
spent an hour amusing himself in the parlour, and then came upstairs,
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where I was waiting for him. He was always prepared for an immediate
encounter with a hard-on which belied his years, the potency of which
was probably contributed to by aphrodisiacal sights, conversations,
and liquor in the parlour.
When the first episode was concluded an hour would be passed in
conversation, stories and banter while I sat on his lap naked. As he
talked, his hands roved over my body, caressing my legs, thighs, and
breasts, and lingering on my hairless cunny where the tantalizing
touches kindled fevers in my organism while his own recovered its
original potency. When he was ready for the second round we
repaired again to the bed and I lay on my back with legs clamped
around his middle and wriggled my bottom until I coaxed his second
spend from him, whereupon he was ready to cry quits, and I was free for
the rest of the night.
This man frequently disconcerted me with some outlandish story, told
so seriously that I never failed to be taken in. While in charge of a
plantation he had taken a baby, left to the vicissitudes of life through
orphanage, and with no facilities other than those available in isolated
bachelor quarters, had endeavoured to care for it and attend to its
requirements.
What a kind-hearted man, I thought, much impressed with the
patience and benevolence the act implied, and passed some
observation to this effect.
“She was a pretty little thing,” he concluded, puffing meditatively at
his cigar.
“Ah… it was a girl,” I murmured.
“Yes. She had the most beautiful skin, a soft, olive tint. It was like silk to
the touch. And her bubbies, not any bigger than orange halves, but as
firm and…”
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“How old was that baby?” I interrupted.
“Oh, she was eleven or twelve, I guess.”
“It was indeed noble of you to have cared for her so tenderly, Mr.
Thomas,” I answered with heavy sarcasm. “I presume dressing and
undressing her, bathing her and so on must have signified quite a
sacrifice of time and labour for you. Possibly you even had to share
your bed with her?”
“Unfortunately, there was only one bed in the place. And I couldn’t let
the poor little thing sleep on the floor, of course.”
“Of course not!”
Next on the list came Mr. Castle. This gentleman had a complex for
strange and unusual postures in sexual intercourse, and also an itch to
experiment along lines somewhat contrary to the plans of Nature.
Only the fact that he was both liberal and possessed of unfailing good
humour made association with him supportable. Had it been possible
to offend him, my angry reactions to some of his droll impudence’s
would quickly have terminated our relationship.
No sooner was the door closed behind us on the occasion of his first
bedroom visit than I was startled to find myself suddenly seized from
behind and tumbled forward so that while the weight of my body fell
upon my hands and wrists, my legs were caught and held under his
arms.
In this undignified position, with my short skirts fluttering about my
face and head, and with my bare bottom and all there was between my
legs exposed, I struggled and protested angrily, but to no avail, for with
imperturbable aplomb, while still imprisoning my kicking legs under
his strong arms, he unfastened the front of his trousers and in an instant
I felt his cock poking against my inverted cunny.
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I tried to evade its thrusts as I sputtered angry protests, but he had me
in such a position that I was quite helpless and in another moment I felt
it going in, in this upside down fashion. The whole thing was finished
and over almost before I was conscious of the pain which his cock,
pressing against the side of my womb in this unnatural position, caused
me.
He was what is termed in professional circles a “fast shooter,” one of
those men whose orgiastic reaction is so rapid as to require but a few
thrusts. In the midst of my kicking and squealing I felt the hot gushes
followed by the wet, sticky trickle of semen down over my stomach. A
second later he released me and sank down on the bed, shaking with
laughter while I, after regaining my feet, stood before him, my face
flushed with indignation, protesting such cavalier treatment.
“Excuse me, Sister,” he gasped finally between gusts of laughter. “I’m
sorry I was so rude. It’s a weakness I have… I just can’t resist temptation!”
“Well, why are you laughing about it, then?” I demanded, only halfappeased by the doubtful apology.
“Ha, ha, ha! If you only knew how funny you looked, standing on your
head, with your cute little cunny upside down!”
“Oh!” I gasped, my indignation mounting anew, but before I could
formulate a sufficiently withering retort, he continued:
“There was something… something… ah, yes; how is it your cunny hasn’t
any fur? I’ve seen them shaved off before, but they’re like a man’s chin,
you can feel the bristles even after a close shave. Your pussy felt as
smooth as silk. Let’s take a peek at it, Sister!”
I was still palpitating with anger, but under such ludicrous
circumstances it could not last long and finally I smiled in spite of
myself.
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“You’re a very abrupt person,” I said. “Since you believe in caveman
tactics, it’s a wonder you bother about asking me to let you see it.”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than he acted on the
suggestion. His hand closed over my wrist and I was jerked none too
gently to the bed and tumbled over on my back. Again I raged
helplessly while, shaking with irrepressible laughter, he adroitly
subjected my wrists by holding them in one hand, and with the other
pulled up my dress.
Apparently unfamiliar with the properties of depilatory agents, his
visual and tactile examination seemed to convince him that the
denuded condition was a natural one, which greatly intrigued his
interest. While I continued to rage futilely, he felt and squeezed the
naked lips and surrounding parts, and still not content, decided to have
some more fun with me.
No one except a woman who has suffered the indignity can
comprehend the conflict of emotions undergone in being jacked-off
forcibly against her wishes. It is quite one thing to submit to the
manipulation when it is desired, and another to be forced.
As the ball of the clown’s finger rotated against my clitoris the
treacherous little organ stiffened up in response, contrary to my wishes
and despite all the mental influence I could bring to bear on it. When I
breathed curses and demands for instant release it pulsed with
increasing vigour under the friction, with the inevitable result that my
resistance was suddenly stifled and my angry exclamations quite
involuntarily changed into surprising moans.
The orgasm diminished my anger somewhat but I still felt resentful
and complained bitterly of having been treated in such an outrageous
manner.
“It was just the same as a ****!” I protested.
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“****? ****?” And again he burst into laughter. “That’s a new one on
me, Sister! I never knew before that a girl could be ****d by a finger!”
“Well,” I answered, my natural good humour beginning to assert itself,
“it amounts to the same thing. When you make a girl do something
against her wishes, it’s ****, even if you do it with your finger!”
It was impossible to stay angry with this comical buffoon, and being
further mollified by a gift of respectable denomination, I found myself
looking forward to his next call, if not with longing, at least with
curiosity.
The next eccentricity he manifested was a desire to try an
inexhaustible number of unusual and strange positions. Because of the
rapidity with which orgasm overtook him, the only way he could avoid
ejaculation and prolong these experiments was to take his cock out of
me after making a few quick movements. Naturally, this was very
tantalizing, for it made me hot without satisfying me, but I had to stand
it as best I could.
Obligingly following his instructions I stood on the floor, bent over, my
hands resting on my knees, and let him do it to me from behind. I lay
doubled up in a ball on the bed with my knees crooked forward
against my chest while he knelt in front of me, I sat spiked on his lap in
a rocking chair, I lay on my back on a table with my legs over his
shoulders and went through other equally strained and arduous
exercises wondering all the while why a man should want to take such
roundabout and complicated roads to reach a place which was
accessible by shorter and easier routes. All these strenuous gymnastics
just to make a few drops of semen come out of histesticles, a result I
could have attained for him in ten seconds if left to my own devices.
But it wasn’t until a subsequent visit that I found I had more
objectionable things still to contend with.
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This time he had me on my hands and knees on the bed and was
kneeling behind me. This is the position known as “dog fashion” in the
social circles of prostitution, and inasmuch as it projects a woman’s cunt
out quite prominently, she has to be careful that the man does not
injure her by too deep a penetration, especially if he has a large cock.
I felt his cock pushing against me, but it was aimed too high, and was
prodding my bottom instead of my cunny. At first I thought that this
was just an accident and putting my hand behind me I shoved it
downward and got it headed in the right direction. But after two or
three vague pushes, it slipped out and again I felt it punching against
my bottom, this time in such a determined manner that it almost got its
head inside.
Again I reached behind me to push it away, but he resisted the effort,
and leaning over my back, whispered:
“Don’t push it away. Let it go in for just a moment!”
“I will not!” I exclaimed, and jerked free from his embrace.
“There, there!” he answered, soothingly, “I was just teasing you, Sis!
Come on and lets finish. I have to get away early tonight.”
Rather reluctantly, and on the alert for a new attack on the unguarded
spot, I again braced myself on my hands and knees, but this time he let
Nature take her course in normal channels.
From this time on the man was unable to resist the temptation to try to
do it to me in the bottom on every occasion which presented itself.
Determinedly I resisted blandishments, coaxings, and even
treacherous efforts to catch me unawares, but it got on my nerves and
brought choleric protestations to my lips. In justice to Mr. Castle, I must
say that he took my angry rebuffs and blunt refusals to gratify his
unnatural whim in good spirit and unfailing pleasant humour.
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It was then I intimated to Madame Lafronde that it would not hurt my
feelings were his affections tactfully transferred to some other girl, but
I was ashamed to tell her the exact reason.
“Why don’t you want him?” she insisted.
“Well, I finally said, “he has crazy ideas. The first night I had an
appointment with him he stood me on my head and did it to me upside
down!”
“What!” she expostulated. “Is that the only reason you dislike him?”
Abashed, I made a clean breast.
“No, it isn’t! If you must know, I’ll tell you! He never gives me a moment’s
peace from wanting to do it to me in the bottom!”
I expected that this revelation would bring a decided expression of
indignation from Madame Lafronde and that she would now be
willing to concede that Mr. Castle was indeed a most objectionable
client.
But, after gazing at me a moment, she began to laugh heartily.
“And is that all that is wrong with him?”
“Isn’t that enough?” I responded stiffly.
“My word, girl,” answered the old lady, “there is no pleasant road to
success in anything, not even in whoring. You’re going to meet men far
more difficult to deal with than this Mr. Castle, so you must now learn
how to get what you want from them and how to evade what you don’t
want by using diplomacy. They say the way to a man’s heart is through
his stomach. I don’t know about that, I never did much cooking, but you
can take my word for it that the way to his purse is through his cock.
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And his purse will stay open just as long as you keep his cock in a good
humour and no longer!”
I was not too dense or too stubborn to comprehend the wisdom of her
philosophy and I did indeed learn eventually that more could be
accomplished by cunning and diplomacy than by angry words.
“Sometime,” I murmured to Mr. Castle one night as I deftly evaded a
sly attempt on my bottom, “sometime, I’m going to let you do that, just
to see what it feels like… but not tonight!”
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CHAPTER 9
When Mr. Wainwright was added to my list of regulars I found need of
all the philosophy I could muster. He was a suave, dapper little man,
rather handsome in an effeminate way, but very nervous and
emotional. He was not, I think, over twenty-eight or thirty.
There was nothing special in his appearance to suggest the possibility
of any weird abnormality, yet here is what happened: As soon as we
were alone in the seclusion of my room he went through a pantomime
of courting me in the most exaggerated manner. Words of gallantry,
adoration, and vows of eternal loyalty poured from his lips as he knelt
before me, kissing first my hands, then my feet and legs.
In accordance with my usual custom when receiving new admirers for
the first time, I was fully clothed excepting one single garment which
for convenience sake I left off, inasmuch as its absence would not be
noted until the moment when its presence would be of no moment.
Taken aback by this man’s strange performance, and indeed not being
sure that he wasn’t simply trying to be funny, I remained silent.
Murmuring words of endearment and adoration his lips gradually
ascended to my knees, whereupon he turned his face upward and
begged in supplicating words:
“Oh, my Fairy Princess! Give me your permission to raise the hem of
this robe so that your slave may cool his burning lips on the sweet
freshness of your divine limbs.”
This was too much for me.
“Go ahead and cool them, Sweetie!” I giggled with a democratic
sociability quite out of keeping with the regal estate he had delegated
to me.
Ignoring the flippancy of my answer, he turned the edge of my dress
up, not high enough to reveal the absence of the interior garment
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already referred to, but just high enough to expose two or three inches
of bare flesh above the tops of my hose. Upon this isolated flesh he
pressed more moist kisses clasping my knee meanwhile to his breast.
“Beautiful Princess!” he sighed ecstatically, and then in humble,
imploring tones, “will Your Highness deign to repose upon the couch
and let this faithful slave quench his thirst at the sweet spring of life?”
It was too ridiculous and I laughed hysterically, but supposing that he
was now ready to “quench his thirst” in the customary manner, I let him
lead me to the bed and lay down, still laughing.
Disregarding my risibility he slowly and with exaggerated deference,
raised my dress and folded it back. He gazed for a long moment at my
denuded cunny which was now in plain sight, and then, before I
guessed his intention, leaned down and placed his mouth on it.
Whether this was just a little frisking preparatory to an orthodox fuck
I had no means of knowing at the moment, but in any event it was a
pleasant variation, and I was agreeably surprised. I had been
“Frenched” on a few occasions even before entering Madame
Lafronde’s bordello, and sometimes Mr. Hayden would tickle my
clitoris with the tip of his tongue for a few moments when Hester and I
were with him. I was peculiarly sensitive to the caress and sometimes
felt an inordinate longing for it, but with the exception of Mr. Hayden,
none of my clients had ever taken the notion, and I, naturally, would
never suggest it.
Consequently, when I felt this man’s mouth on my cunny, and
perceived the play of his tongue over the sensitive parts, I shivered
delightedly, my clitoris stiffened up, and I relaxed my body to better
enjoy the enervating caress.
It continued, actively, expertly. I felt my clitoris, now swollen and
erected, clenched between his lips. A ravishing suction was being
applied to it, and my sexual organism responded by throbbing
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excitedly with a mounting fever of lascivious ebullition. Heavens, it
did feel good. If it were kept up a moment or two longer, something
would surely happen.
I tensed my body, lifted myself up slightly on my elbows, and glanced
downward to my companion. Unobserved by me he had opened the
front of his trousers, and was frigging himself violently. I sank back
with a groan, my ovaries yielded to the intoxicating incitation, and in a
second I was suspiring in the ecstasy of orgasm.
No sooner had my sexual forces expended themselves than a feeling of
revulsion came over me. I do not know to just what extent other women
are similarly affected in this particular, but for several moments
following ejaculation, the slightest touch upon my cunny causes me a
disagreeable sensation. It passes quickly, but during those few
moments I cannot stand even the softest touch or caress. As the last
tremors or orgasm died away I put my hand on his head and gently but
firmly pushed him away.
Yielding to the gesture, he released my clitoris from between his
clenched lips. His face slid down a little and his lips attached
themselves to the flesh on the inside of one of my thighs just below my
cunny. This did not bother me, though I expected a discoloration would
result from the strong suction he applied to the flesh as he continued
meanwhile to masturbate himself vigorously.
The orgasm I had just experienced left me too languid to pay much
attention to just what he was doing, though I was watching him
through half-closed eyes. Suddenly, through his own lively handling,
the jets of semen began streaking from his cock and flew all over my
legs. And in the same moment, his teeth penetrated the flesh of my
thigh where he had been sucking it.
Between pain and surprise I let out a shriek and sprang from the bed in
a single bound. With mixed emotions of fright and anger I looked at
him, uncertain as to whether I should fly from the room or demand an
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explanation of his brutality. He was lying on the bed, gasping and
weltering in his own pollution, seemingly indifferent to my outraged
feelings.
I raised my dress to examine the wound. It was less serious than I had
first imagined, being quite superficial in character. He had bitten into
a tiny fold of flesh, just deep enough to draw blood, which fact was
attested to by several ruby drops which were slowly trickling down
the inside of my thigh. When I saw that I was not wounded as badly as I
had first supposed, anger dissipated fright, and I turned on him
wrathfully.
“What kind of a crazy fool are you, biting me like that?”
He looked at me stupidly for a moment and then his gaze travelled
downward to where the little red drops were visible between my legs.
A look of contrition passed over his face. He flung himself at my feet,
and clasping my knees to his breast, begged me piteously to forgive
him. To my amazement his eyes were filled with tears.
“But why did you do that to me?” I insisted reproachfully.
“Sweet Princess,” he moaned, “I did it u*********sly. Strike me, beat
me, kick me, do what you will with me in punishment, but do not be
angry with your slave!”
What could one do with such a lunatic?
“Well,” I said, finally, “I’ll forgive you, but don’t ever do that again!”
When he had departed I gazed wide-eyed at the material evidence of
Madame Lafronde’s sage philosophy, for without bothering to count
them, he had flung upon my dresser a little sheaf of bank notes which
totalled an amount in excess of anything I had previously received.
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After I had counted the money, I examined again the tiny laceration in
the white flesh of my thigh. It had stopped bleeding and no longer
pained. Money can indeed cure many ails and ills. It was an obsession
the man was prey to, but lured on by the irresistible magic of gold, I
risked further mistreatment and got it, and today, on the inner surfaces
of my thighs just below my cunny, are several tiny white scars, each
punctuating a moment of insanity during which the teeth of a sadist
bit into my flesh while with his own hand he lashed his sexual fury into
its final torment of expression.
During the later period of my incarceration in the reformatory, and for
over five months of the time I was on Madame Lafronde’s staff, I had no
word of my foster brother Rene. Letters sent to the last address he had
given me in Canada came back unclaimed. His silence worried me
greatly. I did not know but what some grave misfortune had overtaken
him, but I suspected that, unable to send me any money, he was
ashamed to write.
While thinking about him one day I recalled that in our old
neighbourhood dwelt a boyfriend to whom Rene was greatly attached,
and it occurred to me to write this boy, or young man as he now was, if
still alive, on the chance that he might have had some news of Rene.
I acted on this impulse, but the response, which came by return post
was negative. He had not received any letters from Rene since the
period which embraced that in which I had been in communication
with him, and he likewise commented on the fact that a letter he had
sent to the address last supplied him by Rene had come back to him
unclaimed. Thus, my contentment and material success were marred
by the preoccupation that something had happened to Rene, whose
image was deeply impressed in my heart.
Accustomed to sleep until around midday or later, I was surprised one
morning to be aroused from my slumbers by Madame Lafronde at the
unusual hour of nine. When I was sufficiently awake to sit up in bed
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and ask what was wanted, she rather grumpily informed me that there
was a visitor waiting for me in the parlour.
This was an unprecedented variation of the house regime, and I stared
at her in surprise.
“Who is it?” I asked wonderingly.
“Don’t sit there asking questions. Get up; comb your hair, put on a
dressing gown and go downstairs.”
Plainly, Madame was not in the best of humour at having been obliged
to get out of bed at this hour. There was something ominously
mysterious about this matter. In my mind I endeavoured to find an
explanation. With chilling apprehension there came across my
thoughts the suspicion that it was in some way connected with the
reformatory. Maybe they had discovered how I was living and had
come to get me! My face paled and I glanced toward Madame
Lafronde. Her expression told me nothing.
“Is there anything wrong?” I whispered.
“You’ll think there’s something wrong if you ever have anyone call
here again at this hour!”
“But…” I protested, “I have never made any morning appointments with
anyone!”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Here, slip this on,” she answered, holding my
dressing gown for me. “Tidy yourself a bit and hurry up so I can get
back to sleep.”
Nervously, I tied my short curls with a ribbon, dabbed a little powder
on my face and followed her downstairs where, after motioning toward
the parlour, she left me and retired in the direction of her own sleeping
quarters.
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Still wondering who in the world could have had the temerity to upset
the house traditions by calling at this hour, I pushed aside the curtains
and entered the room.
Standing with his back toward me, looking out of the window, was the
figure of a man I did not at first recognize. I approached hesitatingly,
and as he heard my footsteps, he turned and faced me.
For a moment I stood paralysed, unable to move or utter a word.
It was Rene.
The letter I had written to his friend with seemingly fruitless results
had in the end been the instrument of our reunion, for through the
address I had given in the letter Rene had been able to locate me
without loss of time or difficulty.
He had come directly to the house, and Madame, on being informed
that I was his sister, had consented to call me without delay.
In a flash we were in each other’s arms, both talking at once. For an
hour I sat on his lap, listening to the story of his adventures and
misadventures. Shamefacedly, he confessed that, as I had divined, a
long period of hardship, during which he had suffered many
vicissitudes and disappointments, had been the cause of his silence.
“But, darling!” I interposed reproachfully, “I could have helped you so
easily. I have lots of money saved, if I had only known how to reach you
I could have sent you some!”
Our conversation was interrupted by the maid, who had come in to
clean the parlour.
“Come on up to my room, darling, we can talk there, and I’ll have the
girl send us up some coffee and cakes!”
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With his arm about my waist we ascended the carpeted and padded
stairs. Within my room I hastily gathered up such pieces of clothing as
were lying carelessly about and straightened out my disordered bed
while Rene gazed about in evident wonderment.
“Gee, this is a regular palace you’re in, Sis,” he mused. “Just what kind
of a place is it? That old dame wasn’t going to let me see you until I told
her you were my sister.”
“Oh, Rene, don’t you know what kind of a place it is?” I asked, in
surprise.
“Well… I’ve got an idea. If s a kind of sporting house, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, Rene.”
“Gee, Sis, I’m sorry. I’ll find some kind of work and get you out of it.”
“But I don’t want to get out! I’m getting along fine; its easy, and I don’t
mind it at all! Really, I don’t! Madame Lafronde is awfully good to me,
Rene, and you’ll be surprised when you see how much money I’ve got!”
“It’s supposed to be a tough life for a girl, but gee, Sis, you look
absolutely topping. Word of honour,” he added, standing in front of me
and holding my arms, “you don’t look a day older than you did when I
went away. In fact…” he continued, eyeing me in a puzzled way, “you
actually look younger!”
I laughed contentedly as he continued to look at me, perplexed.
“It’s your hair, for one thing. Why did you cut it short? It’s cute that
way, but it makes you look like a k**!”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do,” I replied, giggling. “Some of our most
valued patrons are freaks that can’t get a hard-on unless they think
they’re fucking an infant. Look…” I added, raising the short crepe-de-
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chine slip I had on under my dressing gown so that he could see my
hairless cunny, “more of my disguise!”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Rene, breathing harder, “it gives me a funny feeling
to see it like that, Sis! Reminds me of when it really was that way. But
how did you get the hair off so smooth?” he continued, touching me
gingerly with his fingers.
“It’s some paste I put on it. It makes the hair come out clear down to the
roots. Do you like it that way?” I asked, eyeing him mischievously.
“You used to think one wasn’t much good until it had hair on it.”
“Gee, Sis, it looks good enough to eat! And your legs, why, Sis, you
always did have pretty legs, but honest, they’re perfect now; you’re the
best-looking girl I ever saw!”
What feminine heart wouldn’t have thrilled at such sincere tribute as
this?
“Oh, Rene, you old darling!” I murmured, half crying, half laughing as I
put my arms around him and squeezed up to him. “I missed you so
much! I never have had a fellow half as good as you! I’ve just lain
awake nights remembering all the things we used to do! Sometimes
when fellows were doing it to me I closed my eyes and made believe it
was you, but nobody could ever make me feel the same as you did!”
Against my stomach as I clung to him I could feel the warm pressure of
something hard and rigid which was pulsing with enough vigour to
make its movements perceptible through our respective clothing. I
slipped my hand down inside the waistband of his trousers and sought
out the disturbing element. A shiver passed through me as my fingers
closed around the turgid object and a vertigo of longing which
demanded immediate satisfaction, overwhelmed me.
“Oh, Rene, darling, it feels so good to have this in my hand again! I’ll
bet it’s been up inside lots of girls since I had it last, though. Are those
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Canadian girls very pretty, Rene?” I asked, the eternal feminine rising
to the surface as in my imagination I pictured Rene with other girls.
“Some of them aren’t so bad, but I never saw one that could hold a
candle to you, Sis!” Rene replied uncomfortably.
“Come on, Rene!” I panted, “let’s do it quick! Nobody is up yet, but as
soon as the girls are awake, I’ll have to introduce you to them!”
I flung myself on the bed, and in a jiffy the object for which I was
palpitating with burning ardour was buried in my trembling flesh.
With my arms entwined about Rene’s neck I fluttered and moaned and
received his thrusts in a regular frenzy of emotion. In it went, until I
could feel his crisp hair pressed against my naked parts, and as if this
penetration were not enough I hurled myself up against it and pressed
with all my might so that it might reach the innermost depths of my
being. Moaning, gasping, suspiring, and murmuring hysterical
endearments, I clung to him, my arms clasped about his neck and my
legs clenched over his strong back while my flanks quivered and
strained to draw from his as quickly as possible the satisfying balm my
body craved.
Hardly had I recovered from my first orgasm when there was a discreet
knock at the door. While Rene hastily buttoned up his clothing I took
from the maid a tray with coffee and toast. My hands were still
trembling from the recent exhilaration, and my face was flushed and
hot.
We lingered over our coffee for another hour, talking, laughing,
reminding each other of little incidents which stood out prominently
in our memories of the past.
“Do you remember when that little Marshall girl’s mother caught you
trying to do it with her in the coal shed?”
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“I’ll say I remember it! She gave me such a lacing with an old belt that I
couldn’t walk straight for a week. Do you remember how Mr. Peters
used to send me out on fake errands so he could have you alone in the
house and diddle you with his fingers?”
And so, immersed in reminiscences of the past, some laughable, some
pathetic, some tragic, the time flew by, and the sound of movement and
conversation elsewhere in the house reminded me that it was high
noon.
“I’m going to call Hester to introduce you to her. She’s the girl that was
with me in that darned old reformatory. She’s my best friend; if it hadn’t
been for her, I don’t know what would have happened to me.”
I jumped up and went directly to Hester’s room. Finding her awake and
languidly engaged in combing her luxuriant hair I danced up to her.
“Oh, Hester, I’ve got the grandest surprise for you! Powder your nose
and come quick to my room. There’s somebody there waiting to see
you! It’s my brother Rene, come back from Canada! He came at nine
o’clock this morning and Lafronde woke me up! I bet you’ll fall in love
with him when you see him; he’s the handsomest fellow you ever saw!”
My excitement was contagious, and Hester rushed to make herself
presentable. As soon as she was ready I led her to my room where Rene
was waiting.
“This is Hester, my very dearest friend, Rene. Next to you, I love her
more than anyone in the world!”
“Gee, I don’t blame you for loving her, Sis!” exclaimed Rene, as he
jumped to his feet and admiringly appraised Hester’s dark beauty. “I
could love her myself without half trying!”
“Well,” I said, judiciously, “she’s the only girl in the world that would
be good enough for you, and you’re the only fellow in the world that
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would be good enough for her, so that leads to only one logical
conclusion.”
Hester stayed with us until, despite my protestations to the contrary,
she felt that we might wish to be alone, and with a promise to see Rene
again before he left, she slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Rene wished to leave around one-thirty, and anxious to be as close to
him as possible during the remainder of his visit, I again sat on his lap.
Before long, new temptation began to assail me. Tentatively, I felt
around inside his clothing with my hand until I found what I was
searching for. It stiffened out magically under my fingers. For a few
minutes I squeezed it, thrilling to the quick transformation and the
significant throbbing which my touch had evoked.
“Once more… before you go?” I whispered, squeezing it tightly.
“Just what I was thinking myself!” he answered huskily.
“You lie underneath and let me get on top, like we used to do in the
attic!” I suggested.
“Suits me, absolutely.”
And this is how it happened that Hester, returning to bid Rene goodbye as she had promised, on opening the door was confronted by a most
poetic sight.
I, for greater freedom of movement, had thrown off the dressing gown
and, crouched over Rene with my bottom in the air, was working
frantically up and down on the pivotal point which projected from his
middle.
“T-a-ah!” she gasped, “… I didn’t think… excuse me… !” and she closed the
door and fled precipitately.
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“I forgot to lock the door!” I murmured, guiltily.
“Not the first time, Sis!” he retorted.
“Well, it doesn’t make any difference here,” I answered, resuming my
efforts to attain the objective which had been uppermost in my mind
up to the moment of interruption.
After Nature had taken her pleasant and satisfying course and the
inward fires which consumed me had again been temporarily lulled
with a copious shower of masculine sperm, Rene departed.
Hester had not returned, and so as soon as I had bidden him good-bye
at the door, I returned to her room upstairs.
“Jessie!” she exclaimed, “you could have knocked me down with a
feather!”
“Oh, that was nothing,” I answered lightly, thinking she had reference
to opening the door without knocking. “It didn’t startle your modesty,
did it?”
“But… but… your own brother!” she whispered, in low, shocked tones.
For a moment I failed to grasp the import of her words. When
comprehension dawned on me, I burst into laughter.
“Didn’t you know, ha! ha! ha! Didn’t I tell you, Rene isn’t my real
brother, he isn’t any blood relation to me at all, he’s only a stepbrother!”
A look of relief passed over Hester’s face.
“Jesse, no! You never told me that before! You used to talk about him in
the reformatory, but you never said he wasn’t your real brother. Gosh! I
never was so surprised in all my life as when I opened that door and
saw you on top of him, naked! I could hardly believe my eyes!”
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“We were just renewing an old love affair that started when he was
eight and I was six!” I answered, laughing. “What did you think of
him?”
“Well,” she replied, smiling, “let’s go downstairs right now and tell
Lafronde that we’ve just discovered we’re lost sisters, so the next time
he comes, he can be a brother to both of us!”
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CHAPTER 10
The days slipped into weeks, the weeks imperceptibly, into months,
and almost before I realized it, a year had gone by. Barring the few
disagreeable incidents of a minor nature such as those I have
described, the time had been passed on the whole both pleasantly and
profitably.
Miraculously, I had escaped all three of the afflictions whose
menacing shadows are ever close at the heels of those who traffic with
their sexual favours: syphilis, gonorrhoea and pregnancy, the Three
Horsemen of the Prostitute’s Apocalypse.
My health was good, and I had gained in weight, having added several
pounds of flesh which improved my figure even though at the cost of
some of the juvenile slimness which in the beginning had been such a
valuable asset. Nevertheless, I had for some time been observing a
gradual change in my physical orgasm which was becoming more and
more pronounced, and the condition was one which is not common in
the walk of life I frequented.
I will speak plainly. Sexual sensibility, which is that capacity to
respond easily and actively to erotic excitation, diminish rapidly in the
majority of professional prostitutes who are obliged to exercise their
sexual functions with a frequency far in excess of the provisions of
Nature. The sexual act becomes a mere routine in which pleasure or
orgasm is only simulated to satisfy the customer’s ego.
They moan and sigh and murmur passionate endearments, but if their
minds could be read, the hollow mockery would be apparent, for one
thought only occupies them: a wish to be finished and rid of the man as
quickly as possible.
This is the rule which should have applied to me, but didn’t.
Desires which should have been appeased by all too frequent
gratification were quieted but for a moment, and almost at once
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flamed anew with increased insistence. And the tendency was
growing. Strange as it may seem, sometimes after having had orgasm
effected as many as half a dozen times in a single afternoon and
evening, I was obliged to masturbate before being able to sleep.
Pathologically and physically, I was oversexed, designed, seemingly,
by Mother Nature herself to be a whore.
Now in this propitious moment there entered into the horizon of my
life, for the first time, a really sinister influence. And though in that
influence I myself sensed a spirit of perversity I was drawn toward it
like a moth to the candle. Knowing that the destiny it signified was
evil, I had no wish to resist it.
Montague Austin-what memories that name evokes. Memories of
passion, cruelty, horror, blended with the cloying and intoxicating
poison of a transcendental lust which knew no law other than that of
gratifying its own frenzy.
I was supposed to have been infatuated with the man, but I never loved
him, nor thought I did. No, I did not love him, but I did love the mad
transports, the exquisite torment of lust which he, as no other man
before or since, had the power to awaken in me. As an addict to the
scented dreams of opium, so did I become an addict to Montague
Austin. He was to me a fatal d**g which held me a willing victim in its
embrace.
For the first time, in broaching the subject of a new patron to me,
Madame Lafronde manifested a doubt as to the expediency of putting
my youth and inexperience to thetest which she clearly thought an
alliance with Montague Austin would signify.
I had seen the man but once; he was not a regular habituate of
Madame Lafronde’s house, but her facilities for gathering information
were such that within less than twenty-four hours his social position,
resources, and such portions of his history as were available on such
inquiry were known to her. All the information, excepting that which
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related to his economic situation, was unfavourable. She summed up
her opinion in the one expressive word-rotter. But he had money, and
money covers an otherwise inexcusable number of objectionable
qualities. Possibly by the exercise of tact and vigilance I could handle
him.
As for myself, I was the last person in the world to doubt my own
capabilities, so Madame Lafronde finally and with patent misgivings,
yielded to my complacent and optimistic self-assurance.
Now let us glance briefly at the man himself.
He was, at the time our paths crossed, thirty-four years of age. The
younger son of a titled British aristocrat, he had inherited both money
and social position. The social position had been forfeited by dissolute
escapades, the money dissipated in part, but enough remained to
qualify him still as a rich man. He was married, but according to
rumour his profligate ways had brought about an irreconcilable
estrangement with his consort.
At first glance one would have marked Montague Austin as an
extremely good-looking man. But a less cursory observation would not
have failed to disclose signs of a cynical and somewhat cruel character
in his darkly handsome face and narrow mouth. A little above average
height and signally favoured with regard to other physical
characteristics, he was in truth a figure to intrigue feminine
imagination.
In my brocade jacket, high-heeled slippers, and with my grenadier’s
cap tilted at a jaunty angle I was going through my customary antics
one night when I suddenly felt myself clasped from behind, and
turning, looked into the cynically smiling face of a man I had not
previously seen among our parlour guests. I paused, waiting for him to
release me, but instead, he swung me around, dropped an arm under
my hips, and hoisted me, cigarette tray and all, into the air.
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“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” he quoted, “which, taken at the
flood, leads on to fortune. Baby, you’re my tidal wave, the one I’ve been
waiting for all my life!”
He got off this declaration with such well-simulated solemnity and
impressiveness that all within hearing laughed, nor could I myself
restrain a smile.
“I think you’re the tidal wave,” I retorted, “since I find myself quite
swept off my feet. If you’ll be so kind as to set me down, maybe I’ll let
you buy a packet of fags from me!”
“Lord love me!” he exclaimed tragically, “she peddles fags while Rome
is burning! I perish for a kiss, and she offers nicotine!”
“Oh, all right!” I giggled, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Now be
a nice man and let me down!”
He set me down on the floor, but still held me a prisoner with an arm
under mine.
Yielding to his solicitation I unhooked the cigarette tray, placed it on a
table, accompanied him to a secluded corner of the room, and let him
take me upon his knee.
Dropping his bantering attitude he immediately became serious and
asked for a room appointment. A shiver passed over me as his fingers
boldly played with the nipples of my breasts. I glanced into his eyes
but hastily lowered my gaze as something of the lustful obsession
which was later to dominate me came into being. Sensing the
absurdity of telling this man any fairy stories, I explained frankly that I
was not permitted to make any appointments except through the
intervention of Madame Lafronde.
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“Ah, I see,” he answered, taking in the situation instantly, “you’re a
special attraction. So much the better, I’ll see her immediately, and I
suppose there’s no use of taking up any of your time until I do.”
“Any of the other girls can make, room appointments.” I preferred.
“Thanks for the information,” he answered dryly, “but you’ve wrecked
their chances. I couldn’t even get a hard-on with any of them now.”
“I’ve got a friend here,” I murmured, looking around for Hester. “That’s
her over there by the door, the girl with the dark hair. She can give any
man a hard-on. Shall I introduce you to her?”
“No thanks,” he answered with but a brief glance in the direction I had
indicated. “It’s you or nobody now. When can I talk to your madam?”
“I’ll tell her you want to speak to her, but I’m afraid it won’t do any
good.”
“Possibly she can be persuaded. What’s your name, baby?”
“Jessie.” I replied.
“That’s a nice name. Mine is Austin, Montague Austin, Monty to you.
Skip along and tell the old lady I want to speak to her privately.”
The result of his interview with Madame Lafronde I have already
made known. Inasmuch as I had now become quite a parlour
attraction, having in addition to my earlier accomplishments learned a
number of naughty songs and suggestive dances, she was loathe to
concede any of the earlier hours of the night, but an understanding
was reached where Montague Austin, or Monty as I shall henceforth
refer to him, was to enjoy exclusive prerogatives over my person one
night each week after the hour of twelve.
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A feeling of lascivious exhilaration was welling within me as I
groomed myself for our first rendezvous. I had lately noticed that the
craving for more frequently repeated orgasm was growing on me. It
seemed that no matter how often I had it, the longing was never
completely satisfied. Even the two or three patrons I had who were
sexually potent now left me with the irritated feelings of a woman
whose passions have been inflamed and then abandoned in a
smouldering state.
The effeminate Wainwright, who still came regularly, caused me
almost frantic torture with his licking, and sucking, and despite the
preoccupation and the watchfulness I was obliged to observe to keep
him from biting my legs, he left me in such a state that I nearly always
masturbated as soon as he had gone.
It was a little after eleven-thirty. I had slipped out of the parlour,
abandoning for the night my role of cigarette girl, and was making my
toilette, preparatory to Mr. Austin’s promised call.
“How nice it would be,” I thought, as I fluffed violet talc over my body,
“if this Austin would suck me French style and then fuck me about
three times afterwards.” My nerves tingled at the luscious vision thus
evoked and a warm feeling crept through my body. The little scarlet
tips of my bubbies swelled up and in the upper part of my cunny I
could feel something else getting hard, too.
A few moments after twelve there was a discreet knock at my door and
the maid appeared, inquiring whether I was ready to receive Mr.
Austin. At this moment I was standing before the mirror considering
the dress I had tentatively chosen for the occasion, having yielded to
an impulse to use one of the short black silk frocks which Daddy
Heeley had bought me. Just why it had occurred to me to put on this
juvenile costume on the present occasion I could not say; some vague
intuition probably, but as it turned out, a fortunate one as far as the
effect on my new patron was concerned, though until the arrival of the
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maid I was still debating, undecided whether to wear it or change to
something else more in keeping with the circumstances.
“All right, Maggie,” I answered, “you may bring him up.”
I tied my short curls back in a cluster with a band of ribbon, sprayed
them lightly with my favorite perfume, and was just adding a final
touch of powder to my face when footsteps at the door announced the
presence of my caller.
The door opened to admit him, closed again, and the steps of the maid
receded down the hallway.
Mr. Austin paused in evident surprise as he took in the scene which
confronted him, then his face lit up approvingly.
“Are you the same girl I was talking to downstairs last night?”
“You mean that bold little hussy who runs around with a cigarette
tray, showing her legs to everyone?” I answered jocularly. “No, I’m her
twin sister. She’s off tonight, and asked me to entertain you in her
place.”
“Well!” I’m quite pleased with the substitution. You’re much more
attractive than your twin sister!”
“I’m glad you’re not disappointed, Mr. Austin!”
“Not Mr. Austin; just Monty from now on, if you please!”
“Very well, Mr. Austin… I mean… Monty!” I agreed demurely.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries Mr. Austin proved again, as he
had done previously, that he was a man who went promptly and
without any unnecessary circumlocutions after whatever he wanted.
With just the same directness as that employed to overcome Madame
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Lafronde’s reluctance, he proceeded to take immediate advantage, of
the opportunity which was now his.
Abruptly he gathered me up in his arms and carried me to the bed.
Seating himself on the edge he bent over me and his hand began to
rummage under my clothing. With just the proper simulation of
embarrassment I offered to undress.
“Not yet,” he answered, “you’re too pretty a picture just as you are.” But
a moment later his questing hand encountered panties which, if not
exactly finger-proof, were at least something of an obstacle to easy
exploration. He fumbled with them for a moment, then flipped my
dress up and on his own initiative set about to unfasten and remove the
panties.
I laughed nervously as he pulled them down over my legs. Already I
was on fire. My sensibilities were reacting to the brutally frank sexual
influence which the man exerted, and covertly I glanced toward his
lap. The cloth down the inside of one of his trouser legs was distended
over an elongated swelling. It looked enormous. As though drawn by
some inner force I placed my hand upon it. It throbbed to my touch and
I squeezed it through the clothing which concealed it.
Whether the thoughts that occupied my mind while I had been
preparing for his visit were due to a premonition or mere coincidence I
cannot say, but the wish I had expressed in thought was converted into
a reality.
My dress was up, my cambric panties had been pulled down over my
legs and cast aside.
Monty, on the side of the bed, leaning over my knees and supporting
his weight on a hand which rested on the bed between my open legs
had caught his first glimpse of my naked cunny. His eyes glistened and
a faint flush crept over his cheeks. With one sudden movement his face
was between my thighs and his mouth nuzzling my cunny. A warm, soft
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tongue penetrated it, tapping, touching, caressing, and then moved
upward. The hot glow of the caress thrilled my senses and I relaxed in
languorous abandon to the delicious ravishment.
His lips clenched my clitoris; it pulsed in response to the tugging
incitation so vigorously that I was obliged to draw away to avoid
orgasm then and there. I was torn between two impulses; I wanted to let
it “come” and at the same time I wanted the delightful ecstasy to last as
long as possible.
The problem was not resolved by me, however, but by Monty, who
raised up, ripped his trousers open and sprang upon the bed between
my trembling legs.
Hard, rigid and hot I could feel it in there, distending my flesh to the
limit of endurance, inspiring me with a wild desire to work on it
rapidly, violently, until it poured out the balm which the fever within
me craved. For an interval he remained poised above me, motionless,
looking down into my face. His body did not move but within me I
could feel the muscular contractions of the turgid thing which
penetrated me. They followed each other with regular precision and
each time I perceived that tantalizing twitch my ovaries threatened to
release their own flood of pleasure tears.
“Oh!” I moaned finally, and unable to resist the urge, moved my hips in
pleading incitation. “You’ve got me in such a state! Please do
something!”
“All right! Come on!”
And in a second that rigid shaft was plunging in and out in a mad
dance of lust.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” I gasped, and as though incited by my fervour, the
turgid arm drove home in shorter, harder strokes.
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Higher and higher mounted the swirling tides, lifting me upon their
crest, no longer resisting, but an eager, willing sacrifice, panting to
yield up the store of passion with which I was surcharged.
I perceived the approach of the crisis, that delicious prelude in which
one trembles on the brink of ecstasy, in which the senses seem to
hesitate for one sweet moment before the breathless plunge.
And in that critical moment the throbbing weapon which was working
such havoc within my body suddenly ceased its movement and was
held in rigid inactivity.
Above me I saw a face which smiled sardonically down into mine and
vaguely I comprehended that he had stopped his movements with the
deliberate intention of forestalling my orgasm in the last moment. But
he had stopped too late, the tide had risen too high to recede and with
but a momentary hesitation, it swept onward and carried me, gasping,
writhing and swooning in its embrace.
When the, languid spell which always overcomes me after a hard
orgasm had passed, I found him still crouched above me and his cock,
as stiff and rigid as it had been at first, still inside me.
“Why did you stop just as I was coming?” I complained weakly. “You
nearly made it go back on me!”
“That’s what I was trying to do,” he replied cynically, “but you put it
over anyway. You know the old saying, baby, you can’t eat your cake
and have it, too. I like to enjoy the cake awhile before eating it.”
“That’s all very well,” I rejoined, “but when there’s plenty more cake in
the pantry, there’s no use being stingy with it.”
“So!” he said, smiling, “there’s plenty more in the pantry, is there? I’m
glad to hear it. But tell me this, does the second piece ever taste as
good as the first?”
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“And how!” I exclaimed fervently. “The second piece tastes better than
the first, and the third better than the second. The more I eat, the better
I like it!”
He burst into laughter.
“You sound like you really mean it. I’d imagine that after a few months
in a place like this you’d be so fed up on cake it would almost choke
you. You’re a cute youngster. You’re wasting your talents here. What’s
the story? Innocence and inexperience taken advantage of by some
bounder, I suppose?” he added quizzically.
“I’m here for two reasons,” I answered calmly. “The first one is to earn
money and the second one is because I like to do what I have to do to
earn it.”
“Well, bless my soul!” he gasped. “What refreshing frankness! And you
really weren’t seduced by a villain?”
“Seduced, nothing! I was the, one that did the seducing.”
“Good for you! You’re a girl after my own heart! You and I are going to
get along famously, Tessie!”
“Not Tessie… Jessie!”
“Ah, yes; Jessie, Pardon me. Well, since you really like cake, how about
another piece?”
“I’m ready whenever you are!”
“What do you say we get undressed, and really make a night of it? I
didn’t expect to stay all night, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“That suits me, Mr. Austin. I’m yours… till tomorrow do us part!”
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“Not Mr. Austin… Monty, if you please.”
“All right… Monty!” I repeated, giggling.
Whereupon we untangled our respective anatomies, scrambled off the
bed, and proceeded to disrobe.
That is, Monty stripped, but when I had gotten down to my hose and
slippers he suggested that I retain these last articles of apparel for the
moment. Odd, I thought, how so many men who get pleasure from the
sight of a girl’s otherwise naked body were so alike in preferring that
she keep on the hose and slippers, and I murmured something to this
effect to my new playmate.
“Very easily explained, my dear little girl,” he replied. “Complete
nudity may be as suggestive of cold chastity as obscenity, whereas,
nudity supplemented by a pretty pair of silk-clad legs and neat
slippers is the perfectly balanced picture of aesthetic lewdness.”
“But suppose one’s legs and feet are pretty enough to look good
without stockings? Everybody says I have pretty legs!”
“It’s not a question of beauty, but of eroticism. I’ll make a clearer
illustration. Suppose we take two girls, each equally pretty. One of
them stands before us entirely naked. The other is dressed, but she
raises her dress and holds it up so we can see her pussy. Which of the
two is the most exciting sexually?”
“The one holding up her dress,” I answered without hesitation.
“Right. And that’s the answer to your question. You look naughtier
with your hose and slippers than you would completely nude.”
My attention was now distracted from the matter of my own nudity to
that of my companion. His body was well formed and in admirable
athletic trim. Smooth, round muscles rippled under the clear white
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skin, a pleasing contrast indeed to some of my other paunchy, flabby
patrons. But most impressive of all was the rigid weapon which, during
the conversation and undressing, continued to maintain its virile
integrity, standing out straight and proud from his middle. I glanced at
it admiringly.
“How did you ever get that big thing into me without hurting me?” I
commented, as I considered its formidable proportions.
“It carries its own anaesthetic, baby.”
“It looks strong enough to hold me up without bending.”
“Baby, it’s invincible. I could put you on it and whirl you around like a
pinwheel.”
“I’ll take the starch out of it and make it melt down fast enough.”
“That’s a big order. You may lose a lot of starch yourself trying.”
“Ha!” I scoffed, “I wager it will be curled up fast asleep in an hour’s
time.”
A prediction which, as things transpired, turned out to be about one
hundred percent wrong.
I returned to the bed and Monty, following me, placed himself on his
knees between my outstretched legs. Gripping the cheeks of my
bottom in his strong hands as he sank down upon me, he pushed home
the lethal shaft.
Our previous encounter had hardly more than whetted my appetite,
so, as soon as I felt his cock well inside, I raised my legs, hooked them
over his back, and without loss of time began to work against him.
Apparently satisfied with my initiative, he remained still and let me
proceed unhindered.
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Grinding my loins against him I could feel his pubic hair compressed
against my cunny. Moving my bottom from side to side, then shifting
into undulating, circular movements, I sought to capture a second
instalment of the cloying sweetness with which Mother Nature
rewards the efforts of those who labour diligently in her garden.
The first warning of the approaching crisis was manifested by the
muscular quivering of my thighs, and Monty, still squeezing the cheeks
of my bottom, commenced to raise and lower himself upon me with
slow, deliberate thrusts. Now the length of the hot thing was entirely
buried within me, distending my flesh to the utmost; I could feel it
pressing my womb. Now, it was coming out, slowly, slowly, out until
naught but the very tip lay cuddled against the quivering lips of my
cunny.
A pause, a teasing agony of expectation, and it was going in again, in,
in, until the crisp hair at the base was again pressed against my clitoris.
Orgasm was creeping upon me, I could feel it coming, and in a frenzy of
impatience, I launched my hips upward to meet the thrusts, but,
instead of continuing its trajectory, it remained poised midway in its
course. My orgasm was trembling in the balance. In desperation I
brought it to its fulfilment with a supreme effort and fell back, half
fainting.
“What is that, Mister, a system?” I panted when I could speak. “You
played that same trick on me the other time!”
An hour later the suspicion was beginning to dawn on me that, in the
realms of erotic prowess, I had met my master. Two hours later, I knew it
for a certainty. I had experienced nearly a dozen orgasms while my
partner’s cock was still stiff and rigid as it had been at the start. On
each occasion he had succeeded in making me have an ejaculation
without himself rendering any accounting to Nature. It lacked but a
few minutes to three.
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“You look a bit fagged, baby,” he said smiling quizzically. “Think you
can stand one more piece of cake?”
“Yes!” I replied valiantly, although in truth I was beginning to feel like
a squeezed-out sponge. For once in my life I had about had my fill.
This time he rolled me over on my side and with his stomach against
my back and his legs pressed against mine, he put it into me from
behind, spoon fashion.
I thought to turn the tables on him and, by lying perfectly still, oblige
him to work himself into a spending heat. But it was unnecessary. He
was done playing with me and went right to work on his own accord.
Before long the pressure of his arms tightened about me and I tensed
by body against the harder plunges as a hot flood was loosed inside me
with such force that I could distinguish each separate gush as it flung
itself against my womb.
I held rigid for a moment in my determination not to let myself go, but
the feel of that hot stuff spurting inside me worked havoc with my
intentions and about the time the fourth or fifth jet hit me, the brake
slipped and I was off again!
The aftermath of this last orgasm was a feeling of extreme lassitude
and I was entirely agreeable when my companion, having apparently
no further immediate designs upon my person, suggested that we turn
out the light and sleep. I dragged myself from the bed, attended to the
customary hygienic requirements, divested myself of my slippers and
hose, put on a silk shift, slipped back into bed beside him, and in
probably less than ten minutes was deep in sleep.
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CHAPTER 11
I slept profoundly, dreamlessly, but not for long.
Something was pressing against my face, brushing my lips, with an
irritating persistence which defied my mechanical, sleep-d**gged
efforts to shake away. I endeavoured to turn my face on the pillow
away from it, and the knowledge that it was imprisoned so I could not
turn it gradually crystallized in my mind.
As one coming out of a bad dream tries to dispel the lingering shadows,
so did I try to free myself of something which seemed to be oppressing
me, weighting me down, hindering my movements. I could not do it,
and awoke to complete consciousness with a frightened start.
In the dim light which filtered through the curtains from the street
illumination was revealed the fact that my erstwhile sleeping
companion was now straddled over me, a knee on either side of my
body. His hands were under my head, which he had raised slightly,
and against my lips, punching, prodding, trying to effect an entrance,
was that invincible cock.
I struggled to raise my arms to push him away, and at the same time
tried to twist my head sidewise. I could do neither. My arms were
pinioned down by his knees, and his hands prevented me from moving
my head. At my movements their pressure tightened, a sinister
reminder of my helplessness.
Of course I realized what he was doing. He was trying to fuck me in the
mouth, something I had never permitted any man to do.
In prostitution, just as in other circles of life, there are social
distinctions. The cocksucker is at the low end of the scale and is looked
down upon with considerable scorn by those of her sisters who have not
yet descended to this level. If among the entertainers in a high-class
bordello one is discovered to be guilty of accommodating patrons with
her mouth she not only loses caste but stands convicted of “unfair”
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practice which makes it difficult for other girls to compete with her
without also resorting to the same procedure.
This does not, of course, apply to those places known as French houses
where cocksucking is the accepted practice, or to other places of a low
and degenerate character wherein nothing is too debasing to be
frowned upon.
These, together with the fact that I was both sleepy and exhausted
sexually, were the considerations which inspired my efforts to escape
the inverted caress which now threatened me rather than those of a
strictly moral nature. The man appealed to me greatly in a physical
way; I had reacted to his sexual advances with more passion and
enjoyment than I had done before with any other patron. Had he
endeavoured earlier in the night to seduce me, with a little gallantry
and coaxing, into sucking his cock, I might, under the influence of my
exalted passions, have yielded. But I have always been quick to resent
anything smacking of impudence or effrontery and, as I have
mentioned, I wanted at that moment but to be permitted to sleep
undisturbed.
“I won’t do that!” I hissed angrily, as I struggled to free myself from his
embraces.
“Oh yes you will, baby!” was the confident and surprising rejoinder.
His legs pressed tighter against my sides, constricting my arms so that I
could not move them. He lifted my head higher. The end of his cock,
with the foreskin drawn back, was right against my mouth.
“You… you…” I gasped, inarticulate with rage, as I was forced to clench
my teeth to keep out the invader.
“Open your mouth, baby!” he ordered coolly, and gave my head a
shake to emphasize, his words.
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When I comprehended that my wishes were to be ignored and that my
efforts to dislodge him were useless, full rage took possession of me. For
a moment I was on the point of screaming, but sudden recollection of
the penalty exacted of girls who permitted scandals or disturbances to
arise in their rooms at night stifled the cry in its inception.
We were expected, and presumed to be qualified, to meet unusual
situations and resolve them with tact and discretion. Nocturnal
disorders were unpardonable calamities and justified by nothing short
of attempted murder.
“Open your mouth, baby!” he repeated, and shook my head again, this
time with more force.
“All right!” I hissed, “you asked for it!”
I opened my mouth. His cock pushed in immediately, and as it did so I
sank my teeth into it. The intent was vicious enough, but the tough,
resilient flesh resisted any actual laceration. Nevertheless, the pain
inflicted by my small, sharp teeth must have been considerable.
He jerked it out of my mouth and simultaneously, withdrawing one of
his hands from under my head, he dealt me a stinging blow on the side
of the face with his open palm.
“Open your mouth, baby!” he repeated, undaunted, “and if you bite me
again I’ll knock you u*********s!”
The tears started to my eyes.
“Damn you… !” I choked. “I’ll… I’ll…”
The hands subjecting my head were again holding it in a vicelike grip.
His thumbs were pressing into my cheeks, against the corners of my
mouth, forcing it open.
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There was nothing to do but yield or scream such an alarm as Would
arouse the entire household.
I chose the more discreet course and, though almost suffocated with
rage, opened my mouth in surrender to the assault which was being
launched upon it. The big, plum-shaped head slipped in, filling the
cavity with its throbbing bulk.
For a moment I tried to keep my tongue away from it, but there was no
space in which to hide. His cock was so big I had to open my jaws to
their widest, and my lips were stretched in a round, tight ring.
Further resistance was futile and anymore biting would bring a swift
retaliation. So, still boiling inwardly, I relaxed, and let him go ahead.
A faintly pungent taste filled my mouth; the head of his cock, from
which I could not keep my tongue, was wet and slippery. Every few
seconds it jerked convulsively, forcing my jaws further apart. Pretty
soon he began to move it, a short in and out movement. The foreskin
closed over it as it receded, leaving only the tip inside my mouth,
allowing me to relax my distended jaws momentarily. As it went in, the
foreskin slipped back and the naked head filled my mouth again,
forcing my jaws apart.
This went on for several minutes, and all the time he held my head with
his hands. His cock seemed to be getting wetter but whether from its
own dew or the saliva of my mouth I did not know. I wanted to spit, but
he would not release me and I was obliged to swallow the excess
moisture.
Finally, with the head just inside my lips, he paused, and after holding
it still for a few moments, shook my face and whispered:
“Come on, baby! What’s the matter with you? Are you going to suck it,
or do I have to get rough again?”
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I knew nothing of the exact technique of this business, though of course
the very title by which the art was known indicated that sucking was
in order. Choking, gulping, I tried to suck as it advanced into my
mouth. Taking cognisance of my awkward efforts he paused again, and
as though for the first time taking into account the possibility that I
was in truth a rank novice, queried:
“What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you really done this before?”
Mutely, I managed to convey a negative by shaking my head.
“Lord love me!” he ejaculated, and then in slightly apologetic tones, “I
shouldn’t have been so rough. I thought you were just stalling, my dear!
However, it’s something every young girl should know, and I’m glad to
have the opportunity to be your teacher. Now listen: don’t try to
strangle yourself! You can’t suck while the whole thing is inside!
Wait…”
He withdrew it until just the head was encircled by my lips.
“Now suck while it’s like that, and run your tongue over it!”
“Well,” I thought in disgusted resignation, “the sooner finished the
better,” and submissively I followed his indications. Vigorously, if not
enthusiastically, I sucked the big round knob and rolled my tongue
over its slippery surface.
“That’s the way, baby!” he whispered tensely after a few moments.
“That’s great! Now… hold everything!”
And while I remained passive, he worked in and out in short, quick
thrusts. Thus, alternating from one to the other, sucking one moment,
submitting to having it rammed down my throat the next, my first
lesson in cocksucking continued.
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I was still filled with resentment, but the first fury of anger had spent
itself, and my thoughts were now concentrated on bringing the ordeal
to a conclusion as quickly as possible. To this end I now tried to make
the caress as exciting and fulminating as I could. I sucked the
throbbing glans, curled my tongue around it, licking, sucking coaxing…
and the effect upon my companion was soon apparent. He groaned
with ecstasy and from time to time jerked away from me so that the
sensitive glans receded within the shelter of its elastic covering of
flesh.
Perceiving that this manoeuvre was designed to delay an orgasm, I
redoubled my efforts and when he again tried to withdraw I followed
him by raising my head and with my lips firmly compressed around
the neck of the palpitating knob, I sucked and licked without pausing.
The muscles of his thighs and legs, pressing against my sides, were
quivering. Suddenly he withdrew his right hand from under my, head
and twisting sidewise reached behind him, groping with his fingers for
my cunny. This was insult added to injury in my estimation and I tried
to clench my legs against the invading hand. The effort was useless; he
forced it between my legs and with the tips of his fore and index
fingers he found my clitoris and began to titillate it.
Now began a new conflict. With every atom of mental influence I
could bring to bear I tried to force that little nerve to ignore the
incitation, to remain impassive to the friction which was being applied
to it, to stay inert and lifeless.
I may as well have tried to stay the tides of the sea in their course. The
traitorous, disloyal little thing cared not a whit for my humiliation and
refused to heed the mental commands I was hurling at it. Despite the
fact that it should have been as sleepy as I had been, it came almost
instantly awake, hardened, and stood up stiffly.
He rubbed it in a peculiarly maddening way, a soft, twirling
movement with the erected button lightly compressed between the
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tips of his two fingers. The little thrills began to generate, and
communicated themselves to the surrounding area, up into my ovaries,
down, seemingly into the very marrow of the bones in my thighs and
legs.
Why say more? There was only one possible ending.
When the ultimate capacity of resistance was reached and passed, and
in the very moment in which my organism was yielding to the
diabolical incitation, my tormentor, waiting apparently for this precise
moment, loosed within my mouth a flood of hot sperm. I choked,
gurgling and gasping, as part of it gushed down my throat and the rest,
escaping my lips, ran in hot, sticky rivulets down the sides of my
cheeks, over my chin…
No sooner had the torrent subsided than he flung himself from me and
lay panting on the bed by my side.
With the viscid stuff still dripping from my lips and its peculiar starchy
flavour filling my mouth, I sprang from the bed and fled precipitately
to the bathroom. First with water, then with tooth powder and brush
and finally with repeated rinsing I endeavoured to purify my mouth.
When this was accomplished I went back into the room, turned on a
light, and flung myself into a chair where, for a few moments I sat
silently glaring at my tormentor who, with drowzy indifference,
contemplated me through half-closed eyes.
“Well,” I said frigidly, breaking the silence. “Aren’t you going to
congratulate me on my graduation into the cocksucking class?”
He smiled dryly.
“Regular little powder magazine, aren’t you, baby? Come on, k**, don’t
be a spoilsport. I’ll admit I was a little rough, but that was a keen nip
you gave me. I’ll make things right with you. I like you, baby, you’ve
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shown me the best time I’ve had in a long while, and I’m not pulling
your leg, either.”
“A nice time you showed me,” I observed bitterly, “trying to fuck me in
the mouth while I was asleep and nearly choking me to death. You
know girls here aren’t supposed to do that! Why don’t you go to a
French house?”
This plaint seemed to afford him considerable amusement. He sat up in
bed, laughing.
“Don’t rate me so low socially, baby! I’m a sort of high-class chap with
ecstatic inclinations!”
“I see; a special honour conferred on me. Quite a distinction, I must
say.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Forgive me, baby. Word of honour, I’ll behave quite
properly in the future. Anyway, it wasn’t so terrible, was it? Listen, I’ll
tell you a funny story. There was a young French girl just married and
her mother was giving her some confidential advice. ‘Daughter,’ she
said, ‘the ultimate object of marriage is to have babies. Without the
little dears no home is complete. However, the bearing and rearing of
c***dren is a confining task which imposes arduous and continuous
obligations. It is my advice to you, daughter, that you do not have any
babies during the first two or three years. You will then, in after life,
not be deprived of the memories of a few years of happiness and
freedom from care to which youth is justly entitled.’ ‘Ah, mother dear,’
answered the blushing maiden, ‘you need preoccupy yourself no
further on that score. I shall never have any babies!’ ‘Never?’ gasped the
mother, ‘why do you say that you will never have any babies, darling?’
‘Oh, mother,’ answered the girl, hiding her blushing face in the
maternal bosom, ‘I shall never have any babies because I simply can’t
force myself to swallow the horrid stuff! I always have to spit it out!’ “
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“And, so what?” I asked caustically, refusing to unbend at the
ridiculous story.
“Don’t you see, ha, ha, ha, don’t you get the point? She didn’t even know
there was any other way of doing it. She thought she had to swallow
the stuff to get a baby!”
Despite my efforts to remain haughty, my better humour was
returning. I have always been like that, quick to anger, quick to forget.
There was something about this man which was irresistible. Even his
impudence had a saving grace, an ingenuous, disarming quality. Only
the memory of the slap he had given me remained to irritate me. He sat
there in bed, smiling, a sheet d****d carelessly about him, halfconcealing,
half-revealing the smooth white muscles of his torso. His
hair in its ruffled disorder gave him a boyish aspect, throwing a wellformed
white forehead into relief against the background of bluishblack curls.
After all, what harm had really been done? And, I suddenly recalled,
had he not earlier in the night given me a most delightful ten minutes
by putting his tongue in my cunny? The service he had required of me
was no less intimate. I shivered involuntarily at the recollection of the
short but delicious episode. The last remnants of my resentment faded
away. I began to feel slightly ashamed of myself for having made such
a commotion.
“Still peeved at me, baby?” he inquired quizzically.
“No,” I answered, my lips twitching into a smile, “only it was kind of…
well, startling to be waked up that way from a sound sleep. I suppose
you don’t believe me, but I never did that before.”
“Of course I believe you, baby,” he interrupted, “it was easy to see you
hadn’t any experience. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. You
gave me such a stand tonight it came right back on me after I’d been
asleep a short time. I woke up, and lay there looking at your pretty
little mouth in the dim light, and he first thing I knew I got into a fierce
argument with myself about it.”
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“What on earth do you mean, an argument with yourself about my
mouth?”
“Well, it was like this. At first I said to myself, it’s too small, and then I
said, no, it might be a tight fit, but it could be done. And the argument
went on, until finally it got so hot it had to be decided definitely one
way or the other, and so… and so…”
“And so I got fucked in the mouth to settle, it. Very well, Your
Highness, shall we retire now, or is there any other way I can serve
you?”
“Well, if it’s not putting too much of a strain on your hospitality, I’d
greatly appreciate a shot of brandy!”
I rang for the maid. After a long wait, she shuffled to the door halfasleep,
took the order, and was back again in five minutes with the
liquor. When this was consumed, we turned out the light and again
composed ourselves for sleep.
The tumultuous events of the night, abetted perhaps by the brandy of
which I also partook, were reflected throughout the remaining hours in
a regular phantasmagoria of distorted dreams. In all these dreams I
was sucking somebody’s cock. Strangely enough, in them I felt no
inhibitions, no reluctance. On the contrary, I seemed to be doing
something quite natural, and which caused me the most delightful
erotic reactions.
At first it was Rene as I had last seen him, but with an incongruous
discrepancy in time which took us back to our old attic playroom days.
“I’m going to do something nice to you,” I whispered, and placing
myself on my knees before him I unbuttoned his trousers and releasing
his erected cock, took it in my mouth. “No, no, Sis!” he protested, but he
made no effort to escape the seductive caress. The thrill of vicarious
delight was trembling through me when I suddenly observed that
Hester was standing nearby, looking at me reproachfully. I paused for
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a moment to tell her that it was all right, that Rene was only a foster
brother, but even as I spoke, I saw that it was not Rene but Mr. Hayden
to whom I was ministering. From this confusing tangle of composite
personalities, I drifted into another ambient. The effeminate
Wainwright was licking my cunny deliciously, and as he paused for a
moment to masturbate, I twisted around and cried: “Wait! I’ll show you
a better way!” With my thighs across his face I took his small but rigid
member in my mouth and sucked it until he had an emission.
When I finally awoke it was late noon and the echoes of some of these
lurid dreams were still reverberating through my brain. I felt wet and
sticky between the legs and my clitoris was in erection. When I had
gotten my confused thoughts in order and separated the real from the
unreal, I sat up in bed and glanced at-my companion.
He was sleeping soundly and quietly on his back, his curly head high
on the pillow, lips slightly parted over white even teeth. He had
thrown the blankets aside and was covered only by a sheet. I glanced
downward over the recumbent form. Halfway down its length the
sheet rose sharply, projected upward in the form of a little tent. As I
fixed my eyes on this significant pinnacle-like projection, I saw that it
was jerking sharply at short intervals.
I lifted the sheet without disturbing him. That indefatigable, tireless
cock was standing upright, as firm and rigid as a bar of iron. White and
graceful the stout column rose from the profusion of dark and tangled
curls at its base, its plum-coloured head half-hidden, half-revealed
under its natural envelope of satiny skin.
Still holding the sheet up, I looked at his face. It was in the peaceful
repose of sound sleep. I thought of my curious dreams and wondered if
he too was experiencing rare delights with some nebulous shadow
land houri; maybe, even he was dreaming of me!
The thought set me aquiver. Softly I drew the sheet aside. I extended
my hand, my fingers closed cautiously around the pulsing column. For
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a moment I was content to hold it thus, then, watching his face
carefully for signs of awakening, I moved my hand up and down,
slowly, gently, so that the silken foreskin closed over the scarlet head
and then, receding downward, revealed it in its stark-nakedness.
Twice, thrice, I moved it so, pausing after each movement to see
whether it was going to awaken him. At the fourth or fifth movement
he stirred uneasily, murmuring some incoherent word. I waited,
motionless, until his even breathing assured me that he was still deep
in slumber, and began again.
“When he wakes up,” I thought, “I’ll make him tell me what he was
dreaming about that made his thing hard this way.”
My wrist slid downward, the white elastic skin descended, and again
the scarlet head protruded nakedly. As I paused, holding it in this
position, I saw a round, glistening drop of limpid transparency emerge
slowly from the orifice at the tip.
As I observed this natural reaction to my manipulations a wave of
lewdness swept over me, and in an instant I was in a state of passion
bordering on nymphomania, dominated by but one thought, one
driving desire, arid that was to feel the rigid, pulsating thing plunging
in my mouth, to suck it and lick it until the spurting essence brought
relief to the frenzy which now possessed me.
I literally flung myself upon it, indifferent now as to whether he was
awake or asleep, and engulfed the ruby head within the circle of my
lips. In a regular fury of lust I sucked and licked and bobbed my head
up and down to approximate the motions of ordinary fucking.
Of course, this violent disturbance aroused my companion instantly,
but I was too engrossed in my own passion to be hardly more than
aware that he was sitting up in bed, and that his hands were clasping
my face as though to guide the movements of my bobbing head.
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Indifferent to all else I sought only to force the living fountain between
my lips to pour out its elixir as quickly as possible. Instinctively I knew
that when it spurted fourth, my own organism would yield in harmony.
It was trembling now in that delicious borderland of anticipation, and
needed but the final inspiration to precipitate its own shower of lust.
Between my thrusting, encircled lips the muscular flesh seemed
suddenly to grow more taut. It held so for a second, and then with
mighty convulsions poured out its tribute, wave on wave of hot,
pungent ambrosia. Gasping, choking with the deluge which
threatened to strangle me, I writhed in the ecstasies of orgasm which
came upon me in the same moment.
The reaction to this furious excess was a spell of enervating lassitude.
As I came out of it and my chaotic thoughts took on a semblance of
order, I was filled with amazement at the demoniacal frenzy which had
taken possession of me. Next came the thought of what had become of
the spurting jets that indomitable geyser had poured out. The odd,
pungent taste was still in my mouth, but I recalled that I had almost
choked with the quantity that had flooded it. When he had assaulted
me the night before I had spit most of it out, though I had been forced
to swallow some. I glanced at the bed to see if, u*********sly, I had
ejected it. The bed was dry and clean. Seemingly, it had all gone down
my throat.
I remembered the absurd story he had told me about the French girl.
“Well,” I observed, “if it’s true a girl can get a baby by swallowing that
stuff, I guess I’m going to have one.”
“k**, that was great!” he exclaimed. “The first time in my life that I can
recall that I really enjoyed being waked up.”
“I don’t know whatever possessed me,” I murmured in some
embarrassment. “It came on me all of a sudden. I woke up and saw your
thing sticking up. I knew you were dreaming something nice, or it
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wouldn’t be that way. I thought I’d tease you by frigging it while you
were asleep, and then, all of a sudden I just got a regular fit to do that
and I couldn’t stop myself!”
“It was wonderful, k**, wonderful! I always get a hard-on when I sleep
late in the morning and there was something, oh, more than ordinarily
thrilling in being waked up that way. I’ve had lots of women, but it
never occurred to any of them to do that, I mean, while I was still
asleep. It’s something new to put in the book!”
“What book?” I asked.
“Oh, I was speaking figuratively. Something new to remember.”
“Did you really enjoy it so much?”
“Well, rather! If the old pego could talk it would say: ‘thank you, a
thousand times, Miss!'”
“What were you dreaming about that was making it hard like that?”
“Well now, that’s difficult to answer. Whatever it was it couldn’t have
been half as good as what really happened. I have funny dreams, but I
can’t seem to remember them clearly after I wake up. About all I ever
recall is that there, was a girl in them. I must have been dreaming
about you this time. Do you have dreams… I mean, naughty ones?”
“I had some fierce ones last night,” I confessed. “I guess they were
mostly the cause of me doing that!”
“What were they about, baby?” he asked curiously.
“Oh, mostly about you,” I lied, not wanting to say that I had dreamed of
other men while sleeping at his side.
“Were they pleasant dreams?” he insinuated.
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“Well, you saw what they made me do! I’ll bet you think now for sure
that I’m accustomed to doing that!”
“No, honestly, I don’t, k**. I didn’t give it a thought at first, but later I
saw you weren’t up to it. I felt kind of ashamed afterwards for having
made, you do it.”
“Oh, I was mad it first, but I don’t care now. It gave me a thrill, too. It’s
the truth, though, I’d never done it before. But I’ll wager you’ve done it
that way to plenty of other girls.”
“You’d know I was lying if I denied it. And you wouldn’t like me any
better, even if I hadn’t ever done it before, would you?”
“No,” I answered slowly, “I don’t blame a man for having all the fun he
can. If I were a man, I’d do everything there is that’s naughty. I’d do that
to girls, and the other way, too.”
“What other way?”
“The way you did first last night… with your tongue.”
“Oh, you like it that way, do you?”
“It just sets me crazy.”
“k**, I like your style. I made a deal with the old lady to have you once
a week, but to tell you the truth I wasn’t sure that I’d care about coming
back even a second time. You couldn’t shake me now if you tried. I like
a girl who hasn’t the silly idea of trying to fool a man with mock
modesty.”
“You’re married… aren’t you?” I inquired tentatively, though I knew he
was.
“Yes, I am, unfortunately.”
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“Why unfortunately? Isn’t she nice?”
“That’s it, exactly. Too damned nice. She’s the answer to why men like
your kind of girl. She’s an iceberg, a frigid monument to chastity in its
most exaggerated conception. Everything related to sex is immoral.
The only justification for a man getting into his wife’s bed is when its for
creating offspring, and then it’s a nasty, degrading business.”
In my mind’s eye there formed a picture of a pious, dour-faced female,
embittered perhaps through the lack of physical attractions, whose
life was dedicated to the suppression of all those natural instincts and
longings which make living worthwhile. I had heard of such.
“Good heavens!” I gasped. “Why did you marry a woman like that?”
“Reasons of family,” he replied gloomily.
Of a naturally credulous and ingenuous disposition, my heart
immediately swelled with sympathy for my companion’s misfortune. I
had yet to learn that there are always two sides to every story, and that
one must know both to properly judge their respective merits.
“I’m sorry to know of that,” I said sincerely. “When you come here I’ll
try to make you forget your unhappiness. I’m not cold-blooded,’ but I
guess you know that already!”
“You’re a fine k**, and I won’t forget you. Wish I could stay longer but I
have an appointment at two o’clock and it’s an important one. I’d better
dress and toddle along before I weaken.”
With further desultory conversation we dressed and Monty prepared
to leave. He held me for a moment in his arms at the door, lingering just
long enough to lift my dress, slide his hand inside my panties and give
my bottom a few lascivious squeezes.
“I’ll see you next Wednesday night without fail.” And he was gone.
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CHAPTER 12
I stood for a moment thinking pensively of all that had transpired and
then turned my eyes toward the dressing table upon which he had
unobtrusively laid a bank note. It was for five pounds. I folded it up and
tucked it in my stocking.
That afternoon I sat on Hester’s bed, telling her about my new patron.
She listened attentively, asked a few questions, and in a burst of
confidence, I told her all that had happened.
“Oh, Jessie!” she exclaimed in genuine distress. “You shouldn’t have
done that! I had a presentiment against that man the first time I saw
him talking to you. I just had a feeling that he’d get the best of you
someway! Lafronde shouldn’t have given him any appointments with
you!”
“What’s the harm?” I answered lightly. “He gave me five pounds!”
“What’s the harm? There’s plenty of harm! When a girl starts that, she’s
finished!”
“What do you mean… finished?” I rejoined sceptically.
“Why… why… it grows on you! You shouldn’t have let him do that! You
should have screamed!”
“Wouldn’t that have made a hit with Lafronde, me screaming at four
o’clock in the morning that a man was trying to do it to me in the
mouth!”
“I don’t care whether it would have made a hit with her or not! You
shouldn’t have let him get away with it! And then you did it again in
the morning, of your own accord? Oh, Jessie!”
“Yes, I did! It wasn’t bad… I like him. Anyway, what are you talking
about? You’ve done the same thing with Mr. Hayden. I’ve seen you!”
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“Oh, Jessie, that’s different. I never really did it with him. I just put it in
my mouth for a moment to wet it. He never actually fucked me in the
mouth and never wanted to. He’s too much of a gentleman, and you
know it!”
“Well, I don’t see much difference.”
“Well, I see plenty, and I wish you had never met that man!”
“You’re so funny, Hester. When I knew you in the reformatory I used to
think there wasn’t anything you were shy of. Now here you are
preaching to me!”
“I’m not preaching, honey. It’s just that I’ve had more experience than
you, and I know what you have to watch out for!”
She smiled at me affectionately.
“Remember Heloise?” I asked teasingly.
“Yes; she was an example of exactly what I mean now. Fooling with
some perverted idea until it takes a hold on you, and the first thing you
know, you’re a regular slave to it!”
“You did something with her and you didn’t get to be a slave to it!”
“I just let her out of deviltry and curiosity, and it disgusted me more
than anything else. Just before you came here I had some more of that
same stuff, too. Lafronde sent me out on a call from a woman.”
“You never told me that! Who was she?”
“Oh, some man-hating female with crazy ideas. I’ve forgotten her
name. She lived in a hotel. She telephoned here to have a girl sent to
her rooms and Lafronde picked me. I needed some extra money or I
wouldn’t have gone.”
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“What did she want?”
“She didn’t want much of anything except to lick another woman’s
cunt. It was perfectly disgusting, but I lay down and let her do it. She
called back twice after that, and then she told Lafronde not to send me
anymore because I wasn’t ‘responsive’ enough. Lafronde asked her if
she could send a different girl and she said yes, if she had one with a
little life in her. Imagine that! There was a cute little witch here named
Yolanda, very shy and quiet, but she was supposed to be one of those
kind that like other girls. Lafronde asked her if she wanted to go out on
the call and she said yes. A few days after that, early one morning, she
sneaked her things out without saying a word to anyone and
disappeared. So everybody supposed she had gone with this woman.
Poor k**, if she did, she’s probably on the streets now. Those kind of
women are more exacting and harder to get along with than a man.
They get tired of a girl quick and want new ones all the time. You see,
Jessie, I know all about these things, and that’s why I’m not in danger
from them as you would be. You’re an innocent little fool, and you’ll
fall for anything anyone wants to put over on you.”
“Well thanks, you sweet old thing, for your compliments, and for being
so concerned about me. If I was a man, I’d do something nice to you
right now for being so good to me.”
Hester laughed.
“I read in the papers that some doctor in Vienna has discovered how to
change people’s sex. If you’ll let him change yours, I’ll save my money
to pay for it, and when you’ve, got a nice cock we’ll get married and
live happily forever afterwards!”
“O-o-o-h Hester!” I breathed in mock seriousness. “If that doctor can
make me have a six-inch cock and we get married, will you suck it for
me every night?”
“You nasty little pervert!” she exploded, bursting into laugher. “You
take a suck of this!” She pressed her hand between her kimono-
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covered legs and rubbed two or three times. “Since you’ve developed
into a cock-sucker you might as well suck cunts, too!”
“No, I won’t suck your cunny, but I will suck your titties!” I exclaimed,
and before she could defend herself I had tumbled her backward on
the bed, pulled her kimono open, and gotten my mouth on the nipple
of one of her bubbies.
“Stop! Stop! You’re tickling me!” she cried, hysterical with laughter.
“Jessie, stop! You’re making me have goose flesh all over my body! Stop
it, will you!”
Resisting her efforts to dislodge me for a few moments, I clung to her
titty and then releasing it, raised up to look triumphantly into her
flushed face. She was still shaking hysterically, both her plump, round
breasts protruding from the disordered kimono.
“Let’s see if we can fuck each other!” I whispered teasingly.
“You crazy little fool! Get off me!” she gasped. “Let me up! I can’t
breathe! You’re pressing down on my stomach!”
“Come on… just for fun… to see if we can do it!” I persisted, now overcome
with laughter myself at her comic, half-serious expostulations, and
despite her efforts to stop me, I succeeded in pulling her kimono open
entirely.
She had no panties on, but I, unfortunately did. To get them off, and
prevent her from escaping while I was doing so would probably have
been an impossibility. However, she suddenly relaxed.
“All right, you nasty little cocksucker! Let’s see just how far you will
go!”
This was a challenge which brooked no compromise, and though it was
all in fun, I wasn’t going to be the one to back down.
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Raising up on one arm, I slipped my panties down and wriggled my
legs free of them. When I nestled down again, our bare breasts and
stomachs were, together, and against my cunny I could feel the soft
pressure of Hester’s silky pubic hair.
“Now do you still want to see how far I’ll go?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Very well; when you’ve had enough, you can say so!”
Whereupon I slid down a bit and got my legs between hers. This
manoeuvre brought our respective cunnies into still more intimate
contact, and I rubbed mine against hers, pressing in as deeply as I
could.
But I abruptly discovered that this was apt to be more devastating to
me than to her because my clitoris and the sensitive parts of my cunny
were exposed to the friction while hers were covered with hair.
Furthermore, despite the fact that this had all started in fun, I was
beginning to get hot.
Shifting away from her sufficiently to get my hand down to the source
of the obstruction. I parted the soft hair with my fingers, separated the
lips of her cunny, and then quickly pressed mine against the exposed
membranes. She submitted to these manipulations without resistance,
but flinched perceptibly as the moist flesh of our cunnies came
together.
As for myself, I was almost instantly aware that this hot, moist contact
of sensitive parts was capable of producing some erotic reactions I had
not in the least suspected. I realized that they were not the normal ones
which come through contact of opposite sexes in response to the laws
of Nature, but rather the forced surrender of the senses to a purely
mechanical stimulation, as in masturbation.
155
Nevertheless, a delicious sensation was the immediate result and it felt
nicer than when I masturbated. I rubbed my cunny against hers as best
I could. It was an awkward proceeding and her hair kept getting in the
way, obliging me to stop repeatedly to draw it aside. Had hers been
free of hair as mine was, the contact would have been much more
satisfactory. Even so, I was soon trembling, and Hester was moaning
audibly.
In an effort to maintain a comical aspect to what had now ceased to be
a joke, I managed to gasp:
“Do you… still want to… see how far… I’ll… go?”
Her arms tightened about my shoulders.
“Don’t talk! Oh! You’re making me… ah… ah… a-a-a-ah!”
“Oh! You’re making me, too! Press… right there… o-o-o-oh!”
A few minutes later, flushed and dishevelled, we were looking at each
other in comical and guilty confusion.
Hester jerked her kimono over the glistening curls between her legs,
and very red in the face, exclaimed:
“I never dreamed you’d have the nerve to really do that or I wouldn’t
have, let you start it!”
“Oh, shut up, you darned preacher. You wanted it as much as I did!”
“If anyone had seen us, we’d never have heard the last of it,” she
murmured, glancing toward the door. “Yes! That door was unlatched!
Anyone could have walked in!” she added in consternation.
I giggled, recalling other doors which had been left unlatched.
“Like you did when Rene and I were saying good-bye.”
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“Why don’t you think of such things?” she asked reprovingly.
“Well, for heaven’s sake! Am I the only one who’s supposed to do any
thinking? Anyway, nobody came in, so why worry about it now? And
even if they did, this place isn’t supposed to be a Sunday school
exactly, you know!”
“Listen, you! Don’t you ever dare tell anyone! It’s something I never did
before and I’m never going to do it again, either!”
“Don’t be silly! You know I won’t tell anyone!”
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CHAPTER 13
The week passed by and I was waiting for Monty’s second visit. He had
sent me a note, couched in affectionate terms, assuring me that he
would be in without fail.
Of my earlier patrons but two continued to call on me with faithful
regularity; Mr. Thomas, and the effeminate Wainwright. Poor Daddy
Heely was in a hospital, a nervous breakdown, according to reports. I
wondered guiltily whether maybe the excitation my antics caused
him had something to do with his condition. I had become quite
fascinated with the Miss Innocence role I had built up for his
edification, and had gone to extremes in thinking up erotic situations
which could be presented to him in the guise of “maidenly”
confidences. He was physically unable to savour the more material
delights of concupiscence, and I had supplanted the lack with artfully
designed mental and visual extravaganzas. Probably I had
overstepped the mark in my enthusiasm, and sent him into a
psychopathic ward.
Mr. Castle had simply disappeared. In addition to Monty I had another
new patron of several weeks standing and indifferent qualities who
had so far not distinguished himself by any eccentricities worth
mentioning except one: he required that I be fully dressed on the
occasion of his visits, and that I permit him to undress me. With
ceremonial dignity by me, he divested me of my garments one by one
until I stood before him, a modern Eve sans fig leaf. Thereafter, what
took place was of orthodox regularity, a proceeding sanctioned by
custom dating back into the most remote of prehistoric times as far as I
know. In other words, he did just what men have been doing to girls
since the dawn of time.
Monty had asked me to have a substantial supply of liquor available
on his future visits and I had complied with the request. On a little
tabouret near the bed was a quart bottle of Scotch whiskey of a mark
he had indicated, together with a siphon of seltzer and glasses.
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I hummed a song as I stood before the mirror for a last minute,
inspection to be sure that my hair was just right and that my face was
properly powdered and my lips the correct shade of red. But my
thoughts were not on the song, nor more than casually on the face that
was reflected from the depths of the big mirror. I was thinking, with
delicious little quivers of anticipation, of the several hours of
unchastely which were in the immediate perspective. I was sure he
would “French” me again, for had I not confessed to him my
predilection for the delicate caress? And if he did, and if he were nice
to me in other ways, well, maybe I would repay him by doing again
what I had done when I woke him up.
Hester said that after a girl started she was finished, because it grew on
her. Nonsense. That might be true in some instances, and not in others.
Hester meant well, but she didn’t know me as well as she thought she
did. She had a room engagement herself tonight, but had slipped away
for a few minutes to speak to me.
“You be careful with that man Austin, Jessie! He’s not your type!”
Not my type, indeed! What kind of a man did she think my type was?
A senile old innocent like Daddy Heely, or a perverted fool like Mr.
Castle, whose one ambition in life was to do it to a girl in her bottom, or
a semi lunatic like Wainwright, who paid a girl to let him masturbate
all over her legs?
From all of which it will be seen that I was pretty well convinced I
knew better what I wanted than Hester did.
Reflected in the mirror, I saw the door opening gently and the face, of
the man I was thinking about appeared. I pretended not to have
observed his entrance, and a second later he had clasped me from
behind. With my knees hanging over his arm he lifted me into the air
and buried his face in my bosom. I felt his hot breath on my breasts as
he forced it through the texture of the scant garments which covered
them.
159
“That’s a nice way to come into a young lady’s room, without even
knocking,” I scolded playfully. “Suppose I had been doing something I
didn’t want you to see?”
“In that case, I’d have, shut my eyes!” he responded. “But what would
you be doing that you wouldn’t want me to see?”
“Sometimes girls play with themselves when they feel naughty, and
they wouldn’t want a man to see that!”
“Ha!” he laughed, as he set me back on my feet and drew off his gloves.
“You’re not confessing that you practice self-abuse, are you?”
“If I do, do you think I’d tell you?”
“Of course not! That’s something no woman ever confesses to a man.”
“Well, prepare for a shock then. I do it often.”
“Amazing! I’ve known scores of girls and women and you’re the only
one that ever abused herself!”
“How do you know the others didn’t?”
“Because I asked them and they said they didn’t. Congratulations to
you! Your score goes up another ten points!”
“Because I play with myself?”
“No! Because you admit it! Baby, you’ve given me an idea! I’ve… but
wait… I’ll speak of it later.”
“Tell me now!”
“No; let’s get comfortable and have a drink first. I’ve got lots of things I
want to tell you.”
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“All right, but it’s cruel to arouse a woman’s curiosity and then make
her wait.”
“Let your curiosity suffer for a few minutes. I’ll dispel it pretty soon.”
“Well, then, let me hang up your things. Now sit down in this chair and
make yourself comfortable. And here’s that Scotch and seltzer you told
me to get for you.”
“It’s for you, too. You like it, don’t you?”
“Yes, but the trouble is, after I’ve had about three glasses I lose all my
maidenly modesty.”
“So much the better! Have three glasses right now!”
I laughed.
“Here goes number one. My modesty is now one third dissipated. What
is it you’ve got to tell me first? I hope it’s something nice.”
“First, I want to tell you how absolutely topping you look. You’re a
good-looking girl no matter what you’ve got on, or haven’t got on, of
course, but those dresses, there’s a sort of sophisticated c***dishness
about them that’s irresistible. They’re devilishly ingenious. Are they
your own idea, or did somebody else think them up?”
The dress referred to, as you may have guessed, was another of the
little-girl frocks Daddy Heely had paid for. I had worn one the
previous week and as it seemed to have taken Monty’s fancy, I had
selected another on the present occasion. It was a single-piece frock of
black silk with a white belt, and long, tight sleeves. The cuffs, neck and
breasts were lined with pleated ruffles and under laid with creamcoloured lace.
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To go with these dresses I had some dainty high-heeled Spanish
slippers and black silk hose which I rolled just above my knees and
fastened with elastic band garters. Except for one detail the costume
was eminently respectable. That detail was the extreme shortness of
the dress.
It barely reached to my knees when I was standing, and when I sat in a
normal posture there was no surplus material to be pulled down in a
ladylike fashion. The dress was juvenile, but my legs were not. When I
observed Daddy Heely’s liking to sit on the floor at my feet I easily
guessed the reason, and you can too.
Tonight, for certain optimistic reasons related to what Monty had first
done on his previous visit, I had not put on any panties, and under the
black silk frock was nothing except a diaphanous silk chemise,
undervest, and brassiere.
I hesitated at this last question, not wanting to tell him the exact origin
of the dresses, and as he did not press the query, I let it pass
unanswered.
“What else have you to tell me?”
“Well, I must also tell you I’ve passed this whole blessed week
positively thinking of nothing but you. I had such a ripping good time
when I was here before that you’ve been on my mind ever since. The
old pego has been in a continuous state of perturbation. Embarrassing
at times, don’t you know. Night before last I thought something really
ought to be done about it. I tried the wife’s door and it was unlocked, so
I went in. She was asleep, or what I thought more likely, pretending to
be asleep. The time is now, I thought, as I pulled the covers off her; the
girl is here, and so is the place right there in the centre of her bird’s nest.
If I hadn’t been well soused, I’d have known better. This is what I got?”
162
And turning his face sidewise he indicated something I had not yet
observed; three long, partially healed scratches down the length of his
cheek.
“My heavens!” I exclaimed. “If she’s like that, and you don’t care for her,
why do you want to do it with her?”
“Any port in a time of storm,” he answered ruefully, shrugging his
shoulders. “A man can’t always make his cock behave.”
“Well, I think that’s strange! If I were a man and I didn’t like a woman,
I’m sure I wouldn’t want to fuck her!”
“That’s what you think, baby. When a man gets in a certain state, he
has to do something. When I was in South Africa I even fucked kinkyheaded
Kaffir girls. A half a loaf, or even a black loaf, is better than
none!”
“And so, you got your pretty face scratched. It served you right. Is that
all you got?”
“To all intents and purposes, yes. There were quite, a few commentaries
and observations of an interesting nature thrown in for good measure.”
I couldn’t help laughing but at the same time, deep inside me, a little
canker of jealousy that he should have wanted to do it with her began
to form.
“Is your wife pretty?” I asked suddenly.
“About as pretty compared to you as a moth is in comparison to a
beautiful, exotic butterfly.”
His words relieved the vague foreboding which had come over me, and
for the moment I forgot the matter.
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“What else have you to tell me?”
“I want to ask you something. Suppose I should want to take you out
some night to a show, a cabaret, a party, or maybe pass the night in a
hotel, could you get away?”
“I guess so, I’d have to ask Madame Lafronde. She doesn’t like to have,
the girls go out, but sometimes she lets them. I’ve never been away all
night. I suppose if you gave her something extra you could get her to
let me, maybe.”
“All right; that’s that. She can’t hold you in captivity. If she gets
rambunctious I’ll take care of things. And now that the incidentals are
disposed of, the momentous question is: how shall we pass the night to
get the most fun possible out of it?”
I leaned over close to him and, cupping my hands around my lips,
slowly spelled out my recommendation in his ear: “F-u-c-k-i-n-g!”
“Moved, seconded, and unanimously adopted! Let’s start!”
“Shall I get undressed now?”
“No, I want to enjoy that dress awhile first, if you don’t mind rumpling
it. Let’s lie down on the bed and just tease for a little while.”
“All right! But wait… you forgot something… you were going to tell me
something else, you started to tell me and then you said you’d tell me
later!”
“Ah, yes!” he exclaimed, laughing, sinking back into his chair. “Before I
mention that, I think you’d better take those other two drinks!”
“Oh! It’s something that’s going to put a strain on my modesty, is it?”
“Better not ask any questions until after you’ve had the drinks.”
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“You’re torturing me with curiosity! All right, here goes one… and… here
goes the other. That makes three altogether. My modesty is now in a
dormant state!”
“Well,” he said, still laughing, “you put the idea in my head with your
nonsense about playing with yourself. You made me think of
something odd, a blank void in my life. I’ve been all over the world, I’ve
lived with a dozen women more or less and enjoyed the transitory
favours of hundreds of others. I’ve seen all kinds of naughty shows and
exhibitions, and if anyone had asked me, I’d have sworn there wasn’t a
single act in the whole encyclopaedia of sexual arts I hadn’t witnessed.
I’ve even seen actual ****s of young girls in show bagnios in Cairo. But
while you were joking about abusing yourself it came over me that I
never actually saw a girl masturbating herself. I mean, really by
herself, just as though she were alone and nobody watching her.”
“Oh, heavens! I know what’s coming! Give me another drink, quick! My
modesty never lived through three before, but ifs squirming and
twitching now!”
“Listen, baby!” he exclaimed between convulsions of laughter, “I’ve
had something squirming and twitching all week on account of you! I
had it pretty well under control the last time, but it’s ready to go off on
the slightest provocation now, and I think I’d better not expose it to any
direct heat, that is, if I want to keep it in a playful humour for a few
hours!”
“What a lovely way of saying you want to keep a hard-on! All right,
where do I fit into the picture?”
“Well, with the idea you put in my head, and having in mind your
inexhaustible resources, I thought possibly you might be kind enough
to stage a little entertainment, enjoy yourself voluptuously, and at the
same time gratify my prurient curiosity. Kill two birds with one stone,
as the saying goes!”
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I could not, of course, restrain my laughter, but at the same time the
erotic titillations which the lewd suggestion evoked were vibrating
through me and my face, felt like it was on fire.
“I guessed it. In plain words, you want to see me masturbate myself!
Well, I’ve done it when there was no man around, but it will be the first
time I ever did it with one right by me!”
“Then you’ll be accommodating?”
“Excellency, I’m yours, body and soul, and your slightest wish is my
command! How… how…” I exclaimed, again gasping with laughter, “…
how am I supposed to do it?”
“Don’t ask me! I don’t know how girls do it! I’m not even supposed to be
here! You’re doing it just as though you were alone!”
“Very well! But I’d better take another drink to make sure my modesty
stays u*********s. It was never put to such atest before! Well, first, oh,
ha, ha, ha, do I have to tell you what I’m thinking about while I’m doing
it, too?”
“That would add greatly to the realism!”
“Well, first, I’m all alone, like you said, and I’m thinking about
something I did with a man I liked… I’m thinking about what you and I
did when you were here before…”
“Just a moment! I’m not supposed to be here, but you oblige, me to
obtrude for a second. What you and I did when I was here before -we
did a number of things. Be more specific in the interests of lucidity and
realism!”
“Well, ha, ha, ha, I’m thinking of everything we did, and especially
what you did to me first, while I was lying on the bed here, before I
undressed!”
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“Proceed. I’m withdrawn from the room again,”
“I’m thinking about how you licked me down there, and it makes me
feel hot. My little thing in the top of my cunny gets hard and I’m
wishing you were here to do that again. And the more I think of it, the
worse it gets, and pretty soon I think I’d better do something to relieve
the feeling.
“I can’t decide at first whether I will or not, and I walk over to my
bureau and get these pictures and take this one out and look at it…
“Excuse me for coming in again, let’s see that picture… u-um!”
“As I was saying when I was interrupted by a phantom voice, I look at
the picture. It’s a very nice picture of a naked man and a naked woman,
and the man has got his face, down between the woman’s legs and he’s
doing something to her with his mouth. I think to myself, I wish that
woman were me and the man Monty. But they aren’t, so after I’ve
looked at it awhile I put it back with the rest of the pictures and hide
them under the clothes in my bureau.
“I think, what’s the harm, I might as well do it, a little, anyway. So I
come back to the bed and lie down on my back, like this, with my
knees up and kind of apart, and pull my dress up out of the way.
“Then I put my hand down like this, with my two fingers, oh, ha, ha, ha,
and shut my eyes, and, ha, ha, ha, rub this little, hard thing, kind of slow
and easy, with just the tips of my fingers, and it feels awful good, and
the more I rub it…”
At this point the realism I had injected into the pantomime threatened
to overcome me, and I paused, hysterical with laughter.
“… and the more I rub… the more I rub…” I gasped… “the nicer it feels…
until… until… the nice feeling… just seems to… burst inside me… OH!… like
it’s… DOING NOW!”
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I wiped away the tears which hysterical laughter had brought to my
eyes. My face was burning as I turned toward my companion. His face,
too, was a dull red; his reaction to the lewd portrayal had not been
much less than my own. He sprang toward me, and I knew what he
intended to do.
“No, no!” I panted. “Not now! Wait for me a moment! I’m dead down
there now! Let me go wash myself and then I’ll be all right!”
On unsteady feet I went to the bathroom and laved myself with tepid,
scented water. Before I had finished my vitality was returning and the
warm glow of voluptuous desire was beginning to re-establish itself.
“Well, Excellency, is your naughty curiosity satisfied? Now you know
a girl’s last secret!”
“Baby!” he answered in a tense voice, “that affected me more than it
did you, I think. I was so near going off I couldn’t have held it another
second! Look at this…”
Unbuttoning the front of his trousers he took his cock out and
displayed it, turgid and throbbing, to my eyes; he slipped the foreskin
down and the plum-coloured head appeared, dripping with limpid
moisture.
“Just sympathetic tears,” he murmured, “I didn’t come, but I was very
close to it.”
I went again to the bathroom and brought a small wet towel and
wiped away the tears. “Careful! Careful!” he cautioned, as I fingered
the palpitating column. “It won’t take much to release the trigger! I’ll
have to let the fire die down a little before I put it in you, baby, and
meanwhile…” he smiled understandingly, “… and meanwhile, you can
lie down on the bed and take it easy while I pay you back for
entertaining me in such a realistic way!”
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“Shall I get undressed?”
“No, just lie down like you were a minute ago. You were really
entrancing with your little dress up and the white of your bottom and
thighs against the black background of dress and hose. That’s it… just
like, you were before… with your knees up and your legs apart!”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, passed his fingers over the crevice
between my legs in a lingering caress, and then his mouth descended
on it.
What havoc an ardent, enthusiastic tongue can work in a girl’s cunny! I
tried to steel my nerves against it to prolong the exquisite sensation,
but it was no use, I couldn’t hold it back long and all too soon I was
melting in his mouth. As the echoes died away, I pushed him from me
to lie for a while in fainting languor.
It would take too long to relate all that transpired during those mad,
sensuous hours, even if I could remember every act in all its lewd
details. Suffice, it to draw the curtain with the final scene wherein,
hours later, intoxicated both with liquor and lust, I perceived that
Monty’s face was again between my thighs, his hot lips pressed against
my cunny. My dress, now displaced and rumpled, partly hid his face as
he sucked and licked the avid flesh. He himself had long since
disrobed and was completely naked.
As he crouched over me I could see his cock, still enticingly rigid, as it
projected its muscular length outward.
“Turn this direction, Monty!” I whispered, “so we can do it the 69 way!”
He reversed his position and the next moment it was touching my lips
in a moist kiss as he knelt over my face and again buried his own
between my trembling thighs. My lips shaped themselves in a tight
ring around its mouth and neck and took the, visitor in.
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The odd, indescribable savour again filled my mouth, breeding within
me, not distaste or disgust, but a wild hunger to feel it spurting like a
hot fountain in my mouth and throat. So imperious was the urge, that I
scarcely now heeded the penetrating tongue which but a moment
before had evoked such exquisite, torment. I thought of nothing but to
drain the nectar from the living flesh about which my lips were pursed,
to receive its hot gushes in my mouth.
It would give me an orgasm even quicker than having my clitoris
sucked. I felt it, I knew it, the poison had entered my soul, this, this was
the supreme act of voluptuous delight, and nothing hereafter would
ever give me the same thrill. All else would be incidental, superficial,
this was the ultimate caress by the side of which all others receded into
nothingness.
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CHAPTER 14
When I awoke, it must have been around noon. My head was aching
dully and in my mouth was a queer, pungent taste which puzzled me
for a moment, and then I remembered. I sat up in bed. I was starknaked,
and I was alone. On the little tabouret near the bed was an
empty whiskey bottle which accounted, in part at least, for the
headache.
D****d carelessly over a chair were my clothes-dress, camisole,
brassiere, and stockings. I had no recollection of having undressed nor
did I know when or under what circumstances I had fallen asleep.
Monty must have taken off my clothes and subsequently departed
without awakening me. At what hour he had gone I had not the
faintest idea.
Painfully I dragged myself from bed and went to my mirror. My hair
was a tangle and there were violet shadows under my eyes. I shivered
and pressed my hands to my throbbing temples. What a night! Monty
had gone without awakening me. This reminded me of something, and
I turned toward my dressing table. There were some bank notes there,
weighted down with one of my perfume flasks, and under them a slip
of paper with some pencilled scribbling:
“The next time, don’t have on any lipstick. You left red rings all around
it.
See you next Wednesday night. Love and Kisses. Monty.”
I rubbed my fingers over my lips and smiled involuntarily as I viewed
the result. Then I tore the note into shreds and threw the pieces into the
wastebasket.
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I did not feel like dressing so I merely bathed my face, brushed out my
hair, and went back to bed after ringing for the maid. She brought me
some coffee, and toast, and I asked her to tell Madame Lafronde that I
had a headache and would not be down until later.
About three o’clock Madame Lafronde came up to see me.
“What’s the matter, Jessie? Anything wrong?”
“No; my sleeper kept me awake all night, and I’ve a headache, that’s
all.”
“You can rest up tonight. You needn’t come downstairs if you don’t feel
like it. How are you getting on with Austin?”
“All right. He’s not so bad. I like him. He gave me another five pounds.”
“Well, be, smart, and keep him in a giving humour. I was rather
doubtful about him at first. He’s got a bad reputation.”
I stayed in my room the rest of the afternoon and evening, but along
about ten o’clock I got restless, and hearing a great deal of laughter
floating up from the parlour I decided to dress and go down.
Under the genial guidance of a gentleman who had just come from
America, a game of “strip poker” was in hilarious progress. Five girls
were seated around a small table, cards were dealt to them, and the
penalty of a losing hand was the removal of one of the few pieces of
apparel the loser wore. To keep up the morale of the players, a grand
prize to the winner, and consolation prizes to the losers were being
offered.
Already one of the girls was down to her panties, and another to
panties, brassiere and one stocking. Even as I stood there trying to
grasp the intricacies of the game, a shout went up, and the unfortunate
in panties threw down her cards in disgust.
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“Come on, Bobby! No welching! Take them off!”
Now it is one thing to take your panties off in the presence of a man in
the privacy of a room, and quite another to take them off in front of a
crowd of laughing people, and I smiled faintly as I watched the victim’s
flushed face.
But welching is an unforgivable sin in sporting circles, and she was
game. Off came the little silk panties and the spectators, or the
masculine element of them at least, had the pleasure of gazing on the
patch of dark, twisted little curls that rose from the apex of her legs
and spread fan-wise over her pubic mount.
“Now can I put my clothes on again?”
“No, no, no! Not until the game is finished!”
And so it continued, to the immense delight of the onlookers, until all
but one of the scarlet-faced players were sitting around naked, some
pretending a brazen insouciance, others trying to cover their cunnies
and breasts with hands and arms.
“An insipid idea of fun,” I thought to myself as I looked on
indifferently. “Why are men so crazy to look at a girl’s cunt? One
would think it was the prettiest thing in the world. Whatever they find
pretty about one must be in their imaginations. But…” I thought,
continuing my moody philosophy, “if men didn’t think they were
pretty, it would be just too sad for us.”
And an involuntary smile crossed my lips as there came to my mind
the story about the orator for women’s suffrage who shouted from the
platform: “After all, ladies and gentlemen, women are only slightly
different from men…” Whereupon a voice from the gallery interrupted:
“Hurrah for the slight difference!”
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I lingered long enough to pick up some small silver in the form of a
gratuity from a pleasantly inebriated gentleman who attached
himself to me and could not be dislodged until I permitted him to put
his hand down the front of my dress and feel my bubbles. He wanted
very badly to go to a room with me, but I managed to divert his
attentions to Hester and made my escape.
The next night was Wainwright’s. He came punctually as always and
went through his customary nonsense. Generally I extracted some
amusement from my exalted status of Fairy Princess, and although I
had always to be on the alert to keep him from biting me in the
moment of ecstasy, there was something about the fantastic
proceeding that left me in an excited condition.
He sucked me deliciously, but rarely continued it long enough to
quench the fires the caress started. Before I could have an orgasm he
would jerk away from me and masturbate.
This night I was in a particularly restless mood. The exhaustion
following my orgy with Monty had passed away with a day and night
of rest, and I was again charged with voluptuous longings.
Wainwright had concluded his preliminary gallantries and was
crouched over his Fairy Princess on his knees, his head and shoulders
inclined downward and his face between her open legs. His tongue
had started its tantalizing manoeuvers, and the first shivers of lewd
excitation were beginning to generate.
With languorous, half-closed eyes I observed his cock sticking out
from his middle. It was small and slender, much smaller than the
average, but it was turgidly erect. It was like a c***d’s in comparison to
Monty’s.
This association of ideas put into my mind the thought of how much
easier I could manipulate so small a cock in my mouth. The thought
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took root and sent a hot glow through me, and in a moment it was no
longer a thought, but a desire.
Without a word of explanation to the puzzled Wainwright I wriggled
away from him, turned around on the bed, and got on top of him,
straddling his face with my thighs. After a momentary hesitation, and
with a clumsiness which betrayed his unfamiliarity with this classic
position, his tongue again sought out my clitoris.
As soon as I perceived that its activities were in progress anew, I put
my head down and took his little cock in my mouth. The mere fact that
it contrasted so in size with the only other one I had dallied with in like
manner inspired me with a sort of fascination, and I set to work on it
with all my recently acquired skill.
But, alas, I suffered a deception which chilled and disgusted me. Like,
nectar turning to vinegar in the mouth, that erstwhile stiff little cock
which I was so voluptuously sucking almost immediately began to
wilt. From its former state of virile rigidity it degenerated into a
flaccid, spineless, lifeless little worm, and the harder I tried to inspire it
with a bit of manliness, the more fulminating was the disaster.
I released it from my mouth, disappointed, and emulating his own
tactics, worked it patiently with my fingers in an effort to resuscitate it,
but there was nothing substantial to, grasp; it was like trying to make a
piece of string stand up, so limp and flaccid had it become.
I could do nothing with it, and disgusted, I got up from the bed.
Wainwright’s abasement was pitiful to behold.
“Oh, Princess!” he moaned. “Beat me if you wish!”
He sounded as though he actually did want me to beat him. It came
over me that if he left under humiliating circumstances he might not
return again. He was too valuable a patron to lose. It had always been
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profitable to humour him; it might be wise to do so in this instance. As
he grovelled on the floor at my feet I came to a sudden decision.
“I will beat you, you vile creature!” I cried.
Glancing hastily around the, room I spied his own belt partly visible
under the clothing he had placed on a chair. Snatching loose the strip
of pliant leather I flew at him and began to belabour him across the
thighs and buttocks.
“Take that… and that… and that… !” I cried, “you evil, depraved b**st! If
you ever do that again I’ll… I’ll…” and I paused to think of a sufficiently
ominous threat.
“Oh, Princess! Oh, Princess!” he moaned, and turned over on his back
apparently indifferent as to whether the blows fell on his cock and
testicles.
Careful not to strike him in these susceptible parts I continued to rain
blows on him. He grovelled, squirmed, and moaned, and suddenly to
my great astonishment I saw that his cock was getting hard again. And
there before my eyes was realized one of those strange, weird
manifestations of sexual aberration such as delights the hearts of
psychoanalysts and psychiatrists.
His hand descended to the reviving member which was now lifted
upward in a half-erected state. His fingers closed around it, and while,
I continued to shower blows upon his naked body he masturbated
himself to exhaustion.
A sight fit for a cabinet in Dante’s Inferno would have been revealed
had anyone unexpectedly intruded in those moments. The man,
grovelling naked upon the floor, furiously masturbating, while I, with
nothing on but shoes and stockings, my hair dishevelled, my face
flushed, panting and crying imprecations, danced around him
belabouring him frenziedly from all sides.
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When it was all over and he was dressed and gone, I sank down on my
bed. My heart was thumping and I felt half-suffocated. On the bed
beside me was a heap of money. I figured it indifferently, and came to
with a start. The man had literally emptied his pockets! There were
bank notes, shillings, pence and even pennies, a total in excess of
anything he had given me before. Surely the man was a lunatic!
There came an insistent tapping at the door, and Hester entered. She
looked at me in astonishment. I was still naked, my face flushed, my
hair in disorder.
“Jessie! What’s the matter? Did you have trouble with Wainwright?”
“No; no trouble.”
“We heard you whipping him and I was uneasy. You never did that
before!”
“Oh, the damned fool,” I ejaculated, “I think he’s crazy.” And I related
what had happened, omitting only the real cause of his having lost his
erection. “He couldn’t get a hard-on without my whipping him and I
did… with his own belt!”
“Did he give you all that?” she gasped, observing the pile of money
which still lay on the bed.
“Yes,” I answered shortly.
“Gee! You have, all the luck! I wish I had a regular who was crazy the
way that fellow is! I’d even let him whip me for that much!”
“Well, he makes me dizzy. I’m still trembling.”
“I see you are.. You scared me when I first came in, you looked so… so
strange!”
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“What time is it, Hester?”
“It’s about two o’clock.”
“Are you going downstairs again?”
“No; there’s nothing doing. I’m going to turn in.”
“Listen, Hester, I’m nervous. Sleep in here with me tonight.”
“All right, I’ll get my… no! I won’t either! I know what you’re thinking
about, you nasty little pervert!”
“Please, Hester!”
“I will not! Get the electric massage machine or jack yourself off if
you’re so hot!”
“Please, Hester!”
“What in the world is the matter with you, Jessie? Don’t you ever get
enough? You ought to have yourself castrated!”
“Please, Hester!”
“Oh, all right, all right, you disgusting little degenerate!”
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CHAPTER 15
Six weeks went by with Monty visiting me regularly, and week by
week I found myself sinking deeper into the fatal fascination of the
sexual perversion into which he had initiated me. I do not think he was
responsible for the unnatural desire which was now dominating me, I
think he was merely the casual and accidental medium through which
existing but dormant instincts were, aroused.
Like the Succubus of ancient Rome my sexual desires were now almost
entirely concentrated in this one act. My inclinations for other forms of
gratification were diminishing. Normal intercourse was only an
aphrodisiacal irritant if it were not followed by cocksucking. I still
masturbated to calm my nerves, but it was always with fellatio
pictured in my mind as I realized the act.
In my hours of passion I felt an actual physical hunger for the
spermatic nectar. It was as though it contained some vital, sustaining
element necessary to my health and well-being, and the first taste as I
perceived its saline presence in my mouth precipitated the wildest
sexual frenzy. When it came pouring into my throat my own organism
responded instantly, without mechanical stimulation of any kind. I no
longer tried to spit it out as the hot waves laved my tongue; I drank it
avidly, hungrily.
It is said that the cocksucking instinct is the heritage of c***dren whose
mothers, while in an advanced stage of pregnancy, and because of the
discomfort or danger of normal intercourse while in this condition,
have themselves resorted to fellatio, thereby afflicting the unborn
c***d with the unnatural desire. Whether there is any scientific
foundation for this theory, or whether it is mere superstition I do not
know, but I feel certain, with respect to myself, that the instinct was
inherent and not artificially created.
Without any special guidance, refinements and perfections of the art
constitute in part its irresistible allure and enravish the masculine
senses. Gently, softly and slowly realized, an orgasm effected in this
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manner sent the recipient, with few exceptions, into the seventh
heaven of rapture. A soft, even suction, alternated with the teasing
caress of an active tongue playing over the head and around the, neck
of the pulsing glans, supplemented with a slight up and down
movement of the mouth soon had the object of these felicities groaning
with erotic ecstasy.
If the subject was slow to reach orgasm, a more intense excitation could
be induced by the use of the hand in addition. No normal man in a
healthy sexual condition could long resist the luscious combination of
gentle fingers and warm, wet, sucking lips.
As the untouched chords of a harp vibrate in harmony with those
which are giving forth their tremulous melody, so did my own
organism yield up its store of passion, an echo to the very paroxysm I
provoked in another.
To Monty’s manifest satisfaction the unique method of awakening him
in the morning which I have previously related became a definite part
of our erotic program. I looked forward to it with a pleasant glow of
anticipation, and the thought, implanted in my mind, caused me to
wake earlier than I would otherwise have done.
He was a man of unusual virile potency whose sexual vigour reestablished
itself quickly, even after the most enervating exhaustion,
and he always had an erection when I woke up. Slyly, cautiously,
inspired with a prurient fancy to see how far I could get with it before
he woke up, I bent my head over the succulent fruit. But in a few
minutes my cautious, discreet restraint gave way to more energetic
movements as my own passions took the ascendancy. And as soon-as
this happened, instead of a sleeping subject, I had one who was very
much awake indeed.
Week by week I looked forward to Monty’s visits with increasing
impatience. My other patrons I simply tolerated. The lack of interest in
them, which I could not entirely conceal, became apparent and before
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long I lost Mr. Thomas. Madame Lafronde commented on my petulant
humour, and I told her I was tired of being merely an ornament and
wanted as many men as I could get, like the other girls. Some of these,
the more attractive, often had three or four different men in a single
night. She was reluctant to change the existing order and evaded my
request by telling me she would think it over.
I knew she felt that I was more valuable as an “inspirational attraction,
and that she feared the complications and ill-humour which would
inevitably arise when my younger and fresher charms were used to
lure the fish from less attractive bait. Maybe, too, she was aware of or
suspected my recently developed cock-sucking proclivities, for little
escaped her shrewd old eyes and if so, no one better than she knew
what this would do to the peace and tranquillity of the house once the
girls whose clientele I usurped discovered my technique.
In fairness to my sisters in vice, I will say that to most of them fellatio is
abhorrent and practiced only under duress or the pressure of necessity
when fading physical attractions render them unfit to compete on an
even basis with younger rivals. Sacrifices must be made to compensate,
for advancing years and shrunken breasts.
Girls who are alert, good-looking, and possessed of attractive bodies
do not need to practice fellatio to hold a clientele. But men are quick
to take advantage of any weakness and if the caress be obtained once,
either by duress or persuasion or voluntary indulgence, it is extremely
difficult to evade further demands.
Monty’s confidence to me regarding his conjugal unhappiness and
differences became more and more candid. Wrapped up in the lewd
fascination which the man held for me I gave no thought to the fact
that only a bounder and a cad would have made his wife the subject of
such intimate confidence to a whore, regardless of what personal
differences may have existed between them.
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He had explained the origin and significance of some long scratches
down the side of his face, administered by his wife’s agile fingers when
he had tried to force her. And subsequently, there was a big, blue lump
on one of his shins, the result of a well-placed kick received while
trying to impose unwanted attention on her.
“Wait till she’s undressed next time,” I commented viciously, “or did
you have her like me, with just her shoes and stockings on?”
He laughed cynically.
“I’d have to c********* her first to see her naked!”
Apparently, some disagreement of two or three, years’ standing had
arisen between them and she had consistently and determinedly
repulsed all amorous advances since then. Picturing her in my mind as
I did, an embittered, shrewish woman, I could not for the, life of me
understand how he was able to feel any desire toward her. But men are
contrary brutes, and to make them want something desperately you
have only to prohibit it. She didn’t want him to fuck her, and, presto,
the wish to do so was never out of his mind.
These confidences affected me in a peculiar way. I wasn’t in love with
Monty in the true sense of the word, but when he told me such things I
felt twinges of jealousy. It annoyed me that he should perversely want
to do it with her. So distorted can one’s perspective become that his
inordinate desire, to fuck the unfortunate woman inspired me with a
feeling of personal animosity against her.
At first he had seemed to accept the situation with good-natured
indifference, but lately I had perceived an undercurrent of bitterness
and vindictiveness.
“Have you ever read De Maupassant?” he asked one night, after
having told me of some domestic disagreement.
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“No,” I answered, “I’ve heard of him, but I have never read his stories.
Why?”
“Well, among them is one with an idea I’d like to apply to her, with
certain variations.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The story is a long one to repeat, but the essence of it is this: A young
French noblewoman discovers that her husband is unfaithful to her.
She decides to revenge his disloyalty in a manner as startling as it is
unique. She hires some, ruffians to enter the house and bind and gag
him securely. When this is done she has him placed behind some
curtains in her boudoir where he will, perforce, be obliged to witness
all that transpires within the room, but without being able to move or
interfere.
“Then she calls an old servant who has served her all her life and gives
her some instructions. Following these instructions the old woman,
after wandering about the streets for a time, accosts a young man of
genteel appearance, and getting his ear, asks him whether he would
appreciate, an amorous rendezvous with a young and beautiful woman
of nobility sufficiently to bind himself to certain simple conditions, viz:
that he permit himself to be blindfolded while being conducted to and
from the assignation; that during the amorous engagement he lend
himself unreservedly to all the delicate refinements of eroticism for
which the French people are noted.
“The first condition being one of no great consideration, and the second
one which could be easily complied with if the lady were as young and
fair and lascivious as the servant claimed, the youth, who was of a
naturally adventurous and romantic disposition, did not hesitate long
in accepting the mysterious assignation.
“Whereupon the old woman signalled a hack, and when he was inside
blindfolded him and conveyed him to the lady’s boudoir. Here the
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blindfold was removed and the young gallant found himself in the
presence of a vision of nude loveliness which far surpassed his
expectations.
“For an hour the youthful pair disported themselves with voluptuous
abandon, neglecting none of the more delicate and refined artifices in
which mouth and tongue play an important part.
“When the cup of love was finally drained to the last drop, the lady
sprang from the bed and jerking some curtains aside revealed to the
horrified gaze of the youth the securely bound figure of a man who
glared at him with baleful eyes.
“What transpired later when the outraged husband was liberated is
left to the imagination.”
“A very interesting story,” I observed. “Get me the book so I can read it
someday. But what has it to do with your wife? Do you want her to
have you tied up and make you watch from behind a curtain while she
Frenches with some fellow?”
“Heavens, no!” he exploded, “I’d tear her limb from limb if she were to
play such a game on me. But there’s no danger. She’s too prudish. I was
tickling my face with quite the reverse of the plot in the story, thinking
what fun it would be to tie her up and then have some girl come in, you
for instance, and do just what that French couple did, right before her
eyes. Maybe strip her clothes off first, so she’d enjoy it more.”
“What a horrible idea!” I gasped. “Why do you want to torment and
aggravate her? Why don’t you leave her alone?”
“She’s tormented and aggravated me plenty,” he growled vindictively.
“I’ll get even with her, though. Do you know what I’d like?”
“Yes, I do! It’s not a bit hard to guess! You’d like to fuck her, and you
won’t rest until you do!”
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“Wrong, you little spitfire. I’d like to find some way to make her so hot
she’d go down on her knees and beg for it, and when she did, I’d tell her
exactly where to go.”
“Feed her some Spanish fly then,” I suggested dryly.
“By Jove! That’s a dashed good idea! Wonder where one can get the
bally stuff?”
“You’d better be careful. I heard a funny story once about a fellow who
sneaked some into his wife’s tea to make her passionate. He thought
he’d better keep out of sight until it took effect so he went out and
walked around the block a couple of times. When he came back he
didn’t see her around, so he looked in her bedroom. And there she was,
on the bed, with her clothes up, and the butler on top of her. And the
pantry man, the coachman and the gardener were all standing around
holding their cocks, waiting their turn.”
“The moral being, that a chappie had better stick around after feeding
his wife Spanish fly,” he laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Well, come on, let’s get started. I don’t need any Spanish fly to make
me passionate, I’m that way all the time.”
185
CHAPTER 16
Through the damp London night a luxurious car sped swiftly and
surely, the soft purr of its powerful motors hardly distinguishable
above the swish, swish, swish of rubber-shod wheels upon the wet
pavement as they flew onward toward their destinations.
Outside of the curtained windows a macabre fog eddied and drifted,
at times dimming the street lights with its wispy, ghostly vapours.
Within was snug comfort, warmth, life and color.
Had curious eyes been permitted to peek inside the glass and curtainshielded
tonneau, a scene of revelry, profanely at variance with the
dismal exterior of the night, would have been revealed.
Outside, the interminable procession of half suffocated lights vainly
trying to pierce the gray shroud which drew ever closer and closer
about them; inside, the ribald levity of alcohol-inspired abandon, the
sheen of silken hose on diaphanous garments fluttered in careless
disarray above silk-clad knees.
There were four occupants in the seclusion of the cozy, glassed-in, and
softly lighted tonneau. Two of them were gentlemen, modishly attired
in the habiliments dictated by the fashions of the times for evening
wear, and two of them were young girls, whose apparel, if not exactly
that which would have been considered in the best of taste by social
arbiters, was at least beautiful and colourful. The gentlemen,
regardless of their half inebriated condition, were patently at home in
the atmosphere of luxury which both the car and their apparel
suggested. The girls, had the imaginary observer surveyed them with a
critical eye and taken note of the extreme shortness of their dresses, the
rouge upon their cheeks, the exaggerated scarlet of their lips and their
indifference to the indiscreet disarray of their clothing, would have
been catalogued instantly as ladies of that vast assembly politely
described as “not nice!”
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One of the gentlemen was Monty and one of the girls myself. The
second gentleman was another scion of aristocracy known only to me
by the nickname Zippy, and his companion was a young Spanish girl of
saturnine but piquantly beautiful features named Carlota.
This was not the first nocturnal outing I had participated in. Yielding
to the influence of the magic wand of gold which Monty had waved
before her eyes, Madame Lafronde had consented to this departure
from the accustomed routine.
“I don’t want to stand in the way of your doing the best you can for
yourself, but watch your step, girl, watch your step!” were her final
words on the subject.
Tonight we were, to be present at the clandestine showing of some
naughty moving pictures which Zippy had arranged for with an
exhibitor at some obscure point far over on the East Side of London.
After the show we would dine in the seclusion of a private room in a
popular resort.
Zippy was a genial chap of very likable personality. He was possessed
of a humorous and witty disposition. His droll witticisms and antics
kept one constantly laughing, and when he was half under the
influence of liquor, he kept these around him fairly convulsed.
Carlota, whom I had met a few hours before, constituted something of
an enigma. Her attitude toward me was perplexing; I had always been
able to make friends easily, but my overtures to her left her
unresponsive and I sensed some coldness, the reason for which I could
not imagine. At times I found her looking at me covertly and imagined
there was something baleful in the glint of her dark eyes.
Thinking that maybe she regarded my acquaintance with Zippy as a
possible menace to the security of her domains in his affection, I was
scrupulously careful not to presume upon the bonhomie spirit of the
four-cornered friendship, and still this explanation did not seem to fit
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the circumstances exactly, for she seemed peculiarly tepid in her
demonstrations of affection for the good-looking young aristocrat.
Tonight, however, she had apparently cast off her moody lack of
animation and had entered into the festive spirit of the occasion. A
silver-covered flask was being passed from hand to hand as the
smoothly humming motor carried us onward toward our destination.
Ensconced in one corner of the luxuriously upholstered seat, Monty
leaned back with me on his lap. At the other end of the seat, Zippy
held Carlota in a similar fashion. A supple, beautiful arm was curved
lightly about his neck, and a small, piquant face was snuggled against
his.
In the pleasant spell of a mild alcoholic languor, I watched them
dreamily. I felt happy, contented, and was looking forward to a night of
joyous abandon with no premonition or presentiment of evil to mar my
light heartedness.
Carlota’s skirts were up over her knees, revealing a brief extension of
flesh which glinted ivory like in the soft light and was accentuated by
the black sheen of her silk-clad legs. The metallic clasps which
engaged the tops of her hose, holding them smooth and tight about her
legs by means of elastic garters which ascended upward and
disappeared under filmy garments sparkled like jewels as the
movement of the car caused the light to vibrate against them.
An inquisitive hand, lured on, no doubt, by the seductive disarray of
garments, fell upon her knee and began an insidious exploration
upward, its movements contributing further to the disorder of her
clothing and the revealment of more ivory thigh. Of the hand itself
soon nothing was visible but portions of a white cuff, the rest of it being
lost to sight among the filmy undergarments.
Carlota giggled nervously and pressed her legs together, by virtue of
which manoeuvre the invading hand was firmly imprisoned between
walls of warm, living flesh.
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With my head resting on Monty’s shoulder, I watched this lascivious
play with half-closed eyes. What a pity, I thought, that Carlota was
not always jolly and happy. When she was like this, she was really
beautiful. What pretty legs she had, too, so slim and graceful and softly
curved. When girls had legs like hers no wonder men admired them.
Mine had been like that when I was younger, but during the last year
or two they had filled out, become more solid, more suggestive of
maturity.
I straightened my own legs out and contemplated them pensively.
“What are you doing, baby? Admiring your legs?” murmured Monty.
“No; I was admiring Carlota’s, and comparing mine with them.”
“Oh, envy! Thy name is Woman! Do you think Carlota’s legs are
prettier than yours?”
“Yes,” I said, candidly. “I do. Mine are getting too matronly.”
“Bosh,” answered Monty, and he plunged his face between my breasts
and set me to giggling by blowing hot, whiskey-scented breath
through the cloth over my bubbles. “You’re just fishing for
compliments, and out of pure obstinacy, I refuse to bite.”
“The only time to properly judge a lady’s legs,” expounded Zippy
solemnly from his corner, “is when they’re around your neck. I maintain
that Carlota has the nicest legs in the world.
Monty and I burst out laughing and Carlota jerked upright in
pretended indignation.
“Oh! What an insolent inference! I never had my legs around his neck
in my life.”
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“In my dreams, my dear, in dreams! A man has a right to dream
anything he wants to, hasn’t he?”
“No! Not such defamatory dreams as that! If you want to dream about
me, dream something decent! And… o-o-oh!… take your hand away
from there! Stop!… stop!… you’re going to make me wet my panties!”
The sudden slowing of the car, followed by two long and two short
blasts of the siren warned us that we had reached our destination and
Carlota, escaping from the fervid embrace, straightened out her
clothing preparatory to leaving the car.
As it rolled to a stop, apparently in accordance with prearranged
plans and in answer to the signals of the siren, the figure of a man
materialized from the fog-enshrouded night to guide us to the
rendezvous where the entertainment was to take place,
We were conducted to a room improvised to represent a theatre in a
crude way; a few chairs, a small platform elevated two or three feet
above the floor, and back of this a white curtain. The projection
machine and operator were hidden from our view in an adjacent room
whence the pictures would be flashed through a small round hole cut
in the intervening wall. There were no other spectators present as
Zippy had arranged for an entirely private showing.
The exhibition lasted for about an hour and a half and consisted of
several different films, some of them allegedly taken from real life
among the apaches of Paris and which ran the gamut of every
imaginable sexual indulgence and perversion. Another, based
superficially on the question of whether or not it is a physical
possibility for a man to be ****d against his wishes, had as its theme
the sequestering of a young man on his wedding day by a group of
jolly, fun-loving friends.
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Snatched from the side of his bride of a few minutes, he is carried away,
stripped of his clothing, and chained against a wall in an upright
position with his arms elevated and his legs separated.
Under these undignified circumstances he is turned over to the
mercies of a bevy of girls who, with lewd acts, dances and other
artifices, endeavour to make him have an erection. For a while this
modern St. Anthony is able to subjugate any erotic reactions and
successfully resists the wiles of the sirens. But alas, the flesh is weak,
and despite his determination to withstand the impure temptations,
Satan, in the guise of a beautiful young girl with nimble fingers, forces
his cock to awaken from its lethargic slumber and raise its head in
obeisance to the powers of Evil.
With this disaster, the battle is practically lost, for once a man’s cock is
turgidly erect not even the chaste determination of a Galahad can
control its subsequent actions nor stay the course of lascivious Nature.
Raising her dress, the temptress turns around and stooping over, with
her hands on her knees, backs her round, white bottom up against the
rigid spike. Closer and closer she presses, until the treacherous obelisk,
following the narrow road downward between the plump cheeks,
reaches and penetrates the natural haven between her thighs, and
naught remains to complete the victory of sin but the slow, weaving
circular movement of her bottom. “By hand frigging, by sucking, and
by other lascivious arts the unfortunate victim is subjected to further
depletions of his sexual vitality as the sirens, one after another, drain
him to exhaustion, until at last his cock is reduced to a state of
u*********sness and inertia from which no seductive feminine
enticements on earth could arouse it, and when this is apparent, the
luckless (?) groom is released and permitted to go on his honeymoon.
The entertainment terminated with a horrific exposition of a girl and a
diminutive Shetland pony. It was incredible, unbelievable, but the
evidence was there, clear, distinct and indisputable in the moving
photographic reproduction upon the screen.
191
When the show was over we returned to the car and half an hour later
were at a restaurant where a small private dining room had been
reserved for us. We enjoyed a nice dinner, followed with exquisite
wines, over which we lingered, joking, teasing, and otherwise enjoying
ourselves. After the dinner, we would part company, Monty and I
going our way and Zippy and Carlota another.
But it was very pleasant and comfortable in the little dining room. We
were all in the roseate state of semi-intoxication in which everything is
just right and everything that is said excruciatingly funny. So we
dallied, telling naughty stories, rumpling each other’s clothing, and
indulging in all kinds of lascivious nonsense, while Monty and Zippy
continued to drink until they had passed the half-way stage of
intoxication.
“On an occasion of thish nashure,” declaimed Zippy, taking advantage
of a lull in the conversation, “ish an invariable, not to shay an
inviolable cushtom for each guesh to relate in hiah own crude way the
chircumstances and detailsh of hish or her firsh sexual experiensh.”
“What he meansh,” interrupted Monty, condescendingly, “ish:
everybody tell about their firsh fuck!”
“I believe I… hie… made myself clear without… hie… the necesshity… of
an… interpreter!” protested Zippy with great dignity.
“You’re half intoxshicated!”
“I resent that insinuation! I insist that I’m not half intoxshicated. On the
contrary, I’m half sho… sho… sober!”
“Shut up, both of you! You’re both intoxicated! If you start any
arguments, Carlota and I are going to beat it!”
“What wosh thish argument about in the firsh playsh?” interrogated
Monty, scratching his head in perplexity.
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“Oh, Zippy had an idea for each of us to tell about our first sex
experience, and you interrupted him.”
“That wosh a good idea. I mosh humbly beg hish pardon for my
intrushion. It would be mosh interestin’ to learn under what
unforshunate chircumstances you two young ladish losh your
maidenheadsh. I nominate you to tell the firsh story.”
“Oh, no!” I protested, laughing, “it happened so long ago I can hardly
recall the circumstances. Let Carlota tell hers first. While she’s telling
hers, I’ll try to remember mine! That is, if you two men will stop
drinking. There’s no fun telling stories to people, who are too drunk to
listen.”
“I shecond the movement,” interposed Zippy solemnly. “Everybody
lishen now, while Carlota tells ush about her firsh romansh.”
“Ah,” murmured Carlota dreamily. “Until now I have kept the secret of
my misfortune and the circumstances under which my ruin was
accomplished locked in the innermost recesses of my heart, nor did I
think ever to reveal them.
She paused and remained pensively silent for a long time.
We waited expectantly.
“I was the only c***d of wealthy parents who showered upon me every
care and blessing which loving hearts could devise,” she began. “We
lived on a beautiful estate in the country where the art and handiwork
of man was supplemented by every beautiful and exotic creation of
Nature. Close to our home was a charming wooded fairyland in which
wild flowers abounded in bounteous profusion, and through which a
little brook of clear, limpid water rippled on its way to the distant sea.
“Prom my earliest days I recall with what delight I wandered through
this miniature forest, listening enraptured to the lilting songs of the
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birds which lived in its green boughs, gathering a scented flower here
and there, watching the big black and gold bees as they skimmed the
blossoms in their eternal quest…”
“Thersh too many birdsh and beesh and flowersh and not enough
fucking in thish story…” growled Zippy discontentedly.
“Hush up, Zippy! Let her tell the story in her own way!”
“Up until the time I was fifteen years old,” continued Carlota,
unabashed by the interruption, “I was as pure and innocent as driven
snow. My parents had carefully shielded me from every contaminating
influence; I knew nothing; I was ignorant of all the true facts of life…”
“Terrible mishtake parentsh make,” observed Zippy sadly.
“To that lack of knowledge, which I was old enough to rightfully
possess, I ascribe the fact that my pure innocence was trampled in the
mire of lust and my fresh young girlhood blighted forever,” continued
Carlota, her voice husky with emotion.
Monty wiped away a tear and Zippy turned his head to cough
suspiciously.
“I shall never forget the day; it is burned into my soul with letters of
fire. I had just passed my fifteenth birthday; I was a woman in body, but
an innocent, unsuspecting c***d in all else. I thought that babies were
brought by fairies who left them upon the doorstep in baskets woven
from flowers and vines.”
Monty was sniffling audibly. Zippy reached surreptitiously for a bottle
and succeeded in pouring himself a stiff drink before I could wrest it
from him.
“Got to have some kind of stimulation,” he protested aggrievedly,
“thish story ish breaking my heart.”
194
“I had discovered a limpid pool among the rocks into which the water
eddies so gently that the sandy bottom could be seen through the
crystal-like depths. Several fish inhabited this little pool and it was my
delight to Tie on my stomach and watch them swimming lazily about,
with the sunlight, which penetrated the translucent water, causing
their iridescent scales to shine with all the colours of the rainbow.
“It was to this pool I hurried that fateful day, eager to see my little pets,
each of which I had endowed with an affectionate name. I had brought
some bread with me, and as I lay there watching them dart at the
slowly sinking crumbs, I was startled to hear a voice close by me. ‘Ah,
little Miss Narcissus,’ it said, ‘does your pretty face enchant you so that
you linger over its reflection in the water?’
“I looked up into the smiling countenance of a handsome young man
who was standing there regarding me curiously. I was startled, but not
frightened. I knew nothing to be frightened of.’ ‘No, Sir,’ I replied, ‘I was
looking at some fish that live in this pool. They are really very
beautiful. Their scales shine like rubies and emeralds and sapphires in
the sunlight.’ ‘So?’ he answered, peering into the pool. ‘You have to lie
down and put your face close to the water to see them,’ I explained.
“Whereupon the young man, who was an entire stranger to me,
accommodated himself upon the rocks in a position similar to my own,
and together we gazed into the limpid pool while I identified the
various members of my adopted family.
“His interest in the fish waned quickly and he began asking me
questions which I, candidly and ingenuously, answered without
hesitation, thereby revealing to him my c***dish simplicity as well as
my identity.
“I thought I had never seen so handsome a young man. He was much
older than I, five or six years, at least. ‘Do you come here often?’ he
asked. ‘Every day,’ I replied, ‘unless it rains.’ And then, my curiosity
overcoming my diffidence, I asked: ‘Who are you? You don’t live near
195
here, do you?’ ‘No,’ he replied slowly, ‘I come from a far-off city. It is a
secret, but I will confide in you for I see you can be trusted. You must
never tell anyone!’ I listened with breathless interest. ‘I am an emissary
of the king. I am sent here, to see that the a****ls and birds and flowers
are not m*****ed. When the little birds fall out of their nests I put them
back, and when the chipmunks can’t find enough acorns, I feed them.’
‘Oh, how wonderful!’ I breathed ecstatically. ‘May I help you
sometimes? Some wicked boys place traps to catch little bunnies, but
whenever I find the traps I throw rocks on them and break them up!’
‘Quite right, my dear little Carlota (he now knew my name), I will be
very happy to have you assist me in my search for hungry chipmunks,
and if we find any bunny traps we will assuredly destroy them. You
may meet me here at this pool tomorrow, but remember, not a word to
anyone, not even to your parents. The king would be very angry.’
“And thus, with a joyous secret clutched to my trusting heart, and in
the happy anticipation of accompanying this wonderful young man in
his search for little birds which had fallen from their nests, I ran home…”
“Mosh touchin’ story I ever heard,” mumbled Zippy, “but…”
“Hush up!” I hissed. “I want to hear the rest of this story without
anymore interruptions!”
“Sure enough, he was there waiting for me the next day, and what a
delightful time I had, wandering through the woods with him,
exploring little glens and shady bosques where the vines and leaves
were so thick I had never attempted to penetrate them alone.. But it
was easy with someone to hold the vines back, to lift you over fallen
logs, and carry you across wet places where little green snakes might
be hiding.
“There was a place where the brook spreads out, standing several
inches deep in the lush water grass. Across this swampy terrain was a
leafy hummock which I had seen from a distance but had never
approached, not knowing how deep the bog might be around it I .
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pointed it out to my companion and without a word he picked me up in
his strong arms and started across the intervening swamp.
“There was a strange, sweet sensation in being carried this way, one
which I had never experienced before. It filled me with a soft, melting
languor, impossible to describe. As he strode along, he shifted his hold
to ease my weight and his hand, under my swinging knees, came in
contact with bare flesh where disarranged clothing left it exposed.
“A gentle, tingling warmth began to generate, there where his hand
was supporting my legs, and an overpowering emotion gradually stole
over me. I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to the unknown but
delicious sensations, languishing, half-fainting, oblivious to everything
else in the world.
“My subsequent recollection of what transpired was dim and vague. In
a half-u*********s state I was dreamily aware that we had reached
the hummock, and that he had laid me down on the soft grass and was
doing something with my clothing. Indescribable ecstasies were being
provoked by some mysterious caresses between my legs, right there
where they came together, caresses productive of sensations so overpoweringly
sweet that I neither questioned their propriety nor even
wondered how they were being effected.
“Suddenly the delicious spell was broken by a short, quick stab of pain.
An involuntary shriek of anguish escaped my lips, but the pain passed
almost before the sound had died away, and again a flood of warm
delight permeated my being and seemed now to be, projected clear up
inside my body. So intense were the sensations which we now being
provoked that I fainted dead away.
“When I recovered consciousness with all that had occurred impressed
on my memory only as a vague and indefinite, but delicious dream, I
found myself in a peculiar situation. I was lying upon the grass with my
head resting on my companion’s folded coat. My dress was up and my
panties had been removed. My companion was engaged in sponging
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my thighs with a handkerchief he had apparently moistened in the
brook. As he squeezed the water from it, I perceived that it was stained
with a dull red.
“I sat up and felt a twinge of pain and an odd, swollen sensation
between my legs. I tried to stand up, but I was dizzy and weak. What
had happened? Ah, my friends, there is no need to tell you what had
happened. In that unguarded moment the heritage of purity had been
snatched from an innocent trusting maiden; she had been robbed of
that priceless jewel which once taken can never be replaced; her
virginal chastity was gone forever.”
Carlota choked, overcome with emotion.
“Dishpicable, unprinshapled scoundrel,” groaned Zippy, “robbing a
young girlsh pry-shless jewel…”
“Misherable king’s emishary ough to be im-prishoned for life!”
exclaimed Monty, bursting anew into tears.
I was the only one whose heart remained untouched. As the narrative
seemed to have come to an end, I murmured:
“That was a beautiful story, Carlota. Now tell us the real one.”
“The real one isn’t nearly as beautiful as the one I told you,” answered
Carlota, who had now regained her composure.
“Wosh the idea?” growled Zippy, sitting up suddenly. “Imposhing on
our shimpathies in such a… hie… inexcushable manner?”
“Thash what I shay!” echoed Monty, with an aggrieved expression on
his face. “Wosh the idea?”
“Shut up, you two! We’ll make her start all over again, and if she
doesn’t tell the truth this time, we’ll do something to her!”
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“Oh, well, if you insist on the truth you can have it, but I warn you, the
circumstance was quite devoid of romantic interest. Fiction is always
more interesting than truth!”
“Thash what we want, the truth,” exclaimed Zippy with renewed
enthusiasm.
“Never mind the romantic interesh!” recommended Monty.
“Well, let’s see… I guess I was twelve, or very close to it. My Aunt
Carmen and my little cousin Ferdinand were staying with us for the
summer. One afternoon Mamma and Aunt Carmen went to the city,
leaving Ferdinand in my care. It was just such an opportunity as I had
been wishing for. A girl playmate had whispered some interesting
facts to me, confirming pretty well-defined suspicions I had already
formed regarding certain phenomena of nature..”
“I hope there ishn’t going to be any birsh and beesh in thish story,”
murmured Zippy uneasily.
“Before Mamma and Aunt Carmen were out of sight I had made up
my mind that I was going to find out all about it. Ferdinand was nine,
just young enough to accept my leadership in everything, and just old
enough to keep a secret when warned that its disclosure would bring
parental vengeance.
“He could be trusted, and so as soon as Mamma and Aunt Carmen
were at a safe distance, I locked the doors, invited him to come with me
to my bedroom, and under the pretext of teaching him a new game, got
him to undress and did likewise. The game wasn’t exactly a new one,
but it was the first time either he or I had ever tried to play it, and we
were a little awkward.
“By working his little dangle with my fingers, a process I had to repeat
several times, for it persisted in going soft on me, I managed finally to
get it stiff enough to fulfil its proper functions, and after a few erratic
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efforts, it suddenly slipped into the hole between my legs with an ease
which rather surprised me.
“And this, dear friends, was the simple and unromantic circumstances
under which I was fucked for the first time, though in truth it should be
put the other way around, for it could more properly be said that I was
the one who did the fucking. I hope you’re satisfied. As a matter of fact,
the first story I told you was also true, except in some minor details.”
“What were those minor details, if I may ask?” I inquired politely.
“Well, in the first place, I wasn’t entirely unaware of what was going to
happen when he laid me down on the grass and took my panties off. In
fact, I was rather hopefully anticipating it, for I had felt something
hard rubbing against my thigh all the time he was carrying me. In the
second place, I wasn’t by any means u*********s while he was doing it
to me, though I pretended to be. And in the third place, as I have just
related, it wasn’t my first fuck, or my second either for that matter, even
though he did make, me bleed a little because of his size.”
Carlota tossed off a pony of brandy while Monty and Zippy remained
pensively silent.
“Now,” she observed, clasping her hands behind her head and leaning
back in her chair, “let’s hear yours!”
“Mine,” I answered, “parallels yours… I mean your true one… so closely
that I would only have to reverse the ages of the participants, for I was
the younger, by several years. Which reminds me of something I
intended to ask you in view of your experience… can you get any juice
out of a nine-year-old cock?”
“Gosh, I don’t know,” confessed Carlota. “It always seemed to be wet
when it came out, but whether it was boy-juice or girl-juice I don’t
know because I was twelve years old at the time, the hair was
beginning to grow on my cunny, and the juice might have been all
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mine. But don’t fool yourself, a k** nine years old can have an orgasm,
whether he squirts anything or not.”
At this moment a waiter, after knocking discreetly, opened the door to
murmur apologetically that it was well past closing time. A hasty
glance at the timepiece on the wall showed that it was indeed two
o’clock in the morning.
We gathered up our effects and prepared to depart. Both Monty and
Zippy were tipsy. Carlota walked in the peculiar fashion of one who is
not quite sure of the footing, and I myself found when I stood up that I
was far from steady on my feet,
Monty’s chauffeur, who was huddled up in his seat half-asleep, came
to life, jumped out, opened the door for us, and stood patiently
awaiting instructions.
For several minutes we stood there debating further exploits. For my
part I was in favour of going directly to my room with Monty. My blood
was heated and in my fevered, half-inebriated state I pictured several
hours of delicious sexual abandon. But I was overruled by the others,
who were still in an adventuresome mood. They wanted to go
somewhere else to pass another hour or two before separating, and
each had different ideas.
“Listen, everybody!” finally announced Monty with drunken
determination. “We’ll go to my housh! I’ve got a nish, comfortable room
where, everybody can relaxsh and enjoy themselves!”
“Oh, no, we can’t do that!” I protested hastily. “Your wife will have us
thrown out!”
I could not have voiced a more ill-advised objection. Monty instantly
became stubbornly resolute.
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“Lishen!” he said with injured dignity, “a mansh housh ish hish cashel!
When he wansh to entertain dish in hish cashel thash hish… hie… ina…
inalienable right!”
Nobody could offer a valid contradiction to this time-honoured
philosophy, and though the chauffeur looked startled when he
received his instructions, we were soon on the way. Though even in my
beclouded state I could not repress certain misgivings I lulled them
with the thought that his wife would undoubtedly be asleep at this
hour, and I would think up some pretext to get them to leave as
quickly as possible.
But, alas, under the effects of the silver flask and other stimulants
which were drawn forth from hidden recesses in the car, the warning
sense of caution diminished and before long I hardly remembered
where we were going and by the time we got there I was nearly as
drunk as the rest and but dimly aware of the surroundings.
The next thing I knew we were within the beautiful room which Monty
had modestly described as “nish and comfortable.” The feel of rich,
thick carpets was underfoot, and about Us every luxurious comfort and
adornment which money could command. The soft night-light which
was burning gave way to a brighter illumination as crystal chandeliers
burst into life. In an immense open chimney firewood was laid to light,
and in an instant this stately, beautiful room became the scene of
riotous revelry.
Carlota and I flung ourselves upon gorgeous divans while Monty and
Zippy divested themselves of their hats and top-coats and placed
upon an inland table the several bottles, some full, some partially
depleted, which they had carried up from the car.
A sleepy butler appeared unsolicited, and stood with gaping mouth in
the doorway.
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“Go ‘way! Go on back to bed!” ordered Monty. “Thish ish a private
party, we don’t want any intrushions!”
The man retired hastily.
There was an interlude during which events remained only in my mind
in a nebulous blur. Here and there were incidents which stood out in
relief, surviving the chaos of the night. Of course, it was inevitable
under the circumstances that Carlota and I should be wheedled into
disrobing, for no drunken orgy is complete until the women have
exhibited themselves naked, and when the cataclysmic hour struck,
she was down to her slippers, hose and a short undervest, while I, more
circumspect, had removed only my panties.
Across the room where the shaded glow of a rose-tinted light fell
softly on her naked thighs and pointed, cone-shaped breasts, her head
on Zippy’s lap, Carlota lay, alternately shrieking hysterically and
moaning as he realized some occult operation between her legs with
his finger.
Upon the velvet cushions of another divan an equally exotic scene was
revealed. Cuddled in Monty’s arms I rested my head languidly on his
shoulder while he fingered and played with one of my bubbies which
he had succeeded in exposing by the simple expedient of tearing open
the front of my dress.
My own fingers were clutched around something stiff and round and
hot which projected upward from his unbuttoned trousers. I slid the
satiny skin slowly up and down, and each time the rosy head emerged
from its shelter of flesh the rigid column jerked like a live thing. I
squeezed it tighter, gripping it with all the strength of my fist, and still
the spasmodic throb was strong enough to break my grasp as the
plum-coloured head was forced through the tight ring formed by my
thumb and index finger.
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Each mighty convulsion awakened a corresponding throb in my own
sexual organs, and an inordinate longing began to assail me. I wanted
to feel that luscious, throbbing thing in my mouth, to run my tongue
over its wet surface, to lick it and suck it until it burst.
What difference did it make that Carlota and Zippy were there? They
were too immersed in their own pastimes to pay much attention to
what I was doing. Very likely, too, they already knew I was a
cocksucker, for Monty was very indiscreet with his talk when under
the influence of liquor.
In another moment, doubtless, the luscious fruit for which I was panting
would have been between my lips had it not been for an interruption.
That interruption was the quiet opening of the door which gave access
to the beautiful but now disordered and bottle-strewn lounge. I was
the only one directly facing the door and I was the first to perceive a
new arrival.
I froze in rigid attention.
In the doorway, surveying us gravely and silently, stood a woman.
Inasmuch as this woman was the direct opposite of the mental picture I
had formed of Monty’s wife I did not for a moment or two even consider
the possibility that it was she. I simply wondered who she was.
The woman who stood there regarding us with a calm, almost
expressionless face was young, not much older than I, probably. An
embroidered robe of rich, wine-coloured material was drawn about
her and fastened with a loosely knotted, tasselled rope of silk. Under
its lower hem, the lacy edge of a white garment, a nightgown, without
doubt, peeked. She wore no hose, but on her feet were dainty, highheeled bedroom sandals.
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She was superbly, radiantly beautiful, a blonde of perfect type whose
skin was suggestive of peaches and cream, and whose loosely coiled
hair glinted in the light like spun gold.
So silent had been her entry and so quietly did she stand that for
several moments no one but myself was aware of her presence. Monty,
his attention finally attracted by my tense attitude, turned his eyes in
the direction I was looking. Zippy in turn glanced casually toward the
door, and started abruptly. Carlota, facing the opposite direction was
still moaning and suspiring audibly. Zippy shook her significantly and
murmured a warning “S-h-h-h!” She looked at him in surprise, and
then turned her head to see what was holding his attention. When she
saw, she sat up hastily, drawing her one diaphanous garment down
over her hips as far as she could.
It must have been three-thirty or later. Monty was the first to break the
silence.
“Wosh the idea of thish intrushion?” he demanded thickly.
For a long moment there was no answer from the immobile figure. She
continued to regard us, coolly, unemotionally. Then:
“Take your disreputable associates out of this house immediately.”
The words were spoken in a quiet, dignified voice, low and musical, but
firmly resolute.
By this time realization of the intruder’s identity had dawned upon me
and surprise gave way to a rapidly growing feeling of resentment and
anger. In a confused, startled way, I comprehended that I had been
cheated and imposed upon. So firmly rooted was the conception I had
formed of this woman, a conception in which she appeared as a flatchested, sour-faced misanthrope, devoid of seductive feminine charms,
that to find her in every respect the exact antithesis of all I had been
led to believe, or permitted to believe, was at first a shock, and as this
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was assimilated, cause for rage which grew quickly to consuming
proportions.
In some way, not yet clearly defined in my mind, I had been misled and
hoodwinked. I had been permitted to assume, that I had a rival
unworthy of serious consideration, much less to be jealous of. Once,
impelled by some vague uneasiness, I had asked Monty whether she
was pretty. His answer leaped into my memory. “About as pretty,
compared to you, as a moth is in comparison to a beautiful, exotic
butterfly!” The recollection brought a new surge of anger, for it
suggested that I had not only been deceived but likewise made the
victim of my own ridiculous vanity. This woman was regal with a
loveliness which made mine look like cheap tinsel, and I had the sense
to realize it.
In the baffled, frustrated, angry grouping of my thoughts, I included
her as well as Monty in my resentment. I had pitied her before, but I
hated her now with all the bitter venom which jealousy can brew in
the heart of a woman confronted by the superior and invincible
charms of a rival. I could have sunk my fingernails in the soft bloom of
her cheeks with vicious delight, I could have clawed the full,
voluptuous breasts which swelled the dressing gown outward in twin
globes with infinite satisfaction. I fairly suspired to hurl myself on her
and disfigure every inch of her golden beauty.
Dimly, I was aware that Monty had lurched to his feet and was
advancing toward her.
“Lishen! Thesh ladiesh are my guesh! Wosh the idea of inshulting my
guesh? Wosh the idea calling my guesh dish… dish… reputable?”
She stood her ground, receding not an inch before the menacing
gesture of an upraised hand. No emotion was visible in her face except
that of cool disdain.
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“Remove these people from here instantly,” she repeated. “I will not
tolerate their presence here.”
“Shay! Wosh housh ish thish? I refush to be embarrasshed in the
presensh of my friensh!”
He made an unsteady lurch, and the sharp sound of a hand in contact
with flesh was heard. He had slapped her in the face with considerable
force.
A wave of cruel pleasure swept over me with the sound of the impact
and the hot blood tingled in my cheeks. Across one of hers a dappled,
reddish outline appeared to mar the white purity of her skin. But she
did not flinch. With outward calm and dignity she remained
motionless. There was a moment of deadly silence, and the low voice
spoke again.
“Take your degenerate friends with you and leave this house or I will
go myself.”
What followed can only be told in a summary fashion. My own
emotions were so violent that I saw everything through a sort of red
haze and the details were blended in a confused blur of movement and
action.
Monty had seized her in his arms. They were tussling and swaying in
the doorway, she trying to escape his grasp and he apparently intent
on dragging her into the room. No words were spoken; there was no
sound except the heavy breathing, the swish of garments, and the
scuffle of moving feet deadened in part by the thick carpets.
The pallor of her face had given way to a vivid flush which burned in
either cheek. One of her bronze slippers had been dislodged in the
scuffle and she was panting audibly. With a violent effort she
succeeded in wrestling an arm free from his clasp, and placing the
palm of her hand against his chin she forced his head back. For a
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moment it seemed that she was about to free herself from his drunken
embrace.
As she strained to loosen his grasp, the sound of ripping cloth was
heard and the neck and upper part of her robe and nightgown were
torn open. The folds sagged down over her shoulders and arms, and one
white breast was exposed.
I can see it yet, that proud, round breast of alabaster whiteness
protruding from the ravished garments, its rosy nipple standing out
prominently.
The sudden yielding of the garment caused her to lose her balance and
the temporary advantage she had gained. She tottered backward and
before she could recover herself she was again helpless in his arms. But
she did not cease to struggle as she was dragged toward the centre of
the room.
The blood was singing in my head. I felt choked, suffocated, and was
breathing in short, dry gasps. Zippy and Carlota sat stiffly erect,
watching with bulging eyes, but I gave them hardly a thought.
Remembrance of his cynical admission of attempts to fuck her was
simmering in my brain. Well, he would never lay hands on me again.
Let him fuck her if he could, and let her claw him to shreds while he
was doing it if she wanted to. That was what he had on his mind now. I
knew he was going to try to fuck her right there in our presence.
The sound of more ripping cloth bore out the supposition andtestified
to his lust for the woman who had spurned him as he tried drunkenly to
disrobe her. The kaleidoscopic, shifting blur of movement now
revealed her half-nude as the entire front of her dressing gown was
ripped open and the torn fragments of the nightgown underneath
tangled about her legs.
I clenched my fists and bit my lips. My face was burning hot and my
head felt light and dizzy.
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As the torn fragments fluttered about her shapely limbs, he lifted her
up. She managed to slip from his arms and regained her feet, but as she
did so what remained of the garments was stripped upward and for a
moment, not only her legs, but her bottom as well was left naked. As
she twisted about the light shone full on the patch of little bronze,
ringlets of hair at the base of her stomach. Another violent movement
and pieces of her torn garments again covered the erotic sight.
She was panting, choked, inarticulate, but as if aware of her halfnaked
condition she gathered herself for a supreme effort and placing
both hands against his chest she shoved with desperate strength.
Doubtless, divining what was in his mind, she put every ounce of her
failing energies into a superhuman effort to escape the humiliation.
She succeeded in pushing him from her. He clutched at her in an effort
to regain his balance, tottered uncertainly for a moment, and fell
backward. His head struck the edge of the iron grating in front of the
fireplace.. His body twisted once or twice, straightened out, and
remained motionless.
There was a momentary silence, broken only by a faint, peculiar
whistling sound from the lips of the fallen man, a sound which I, and
probably both my companions, assumed to be more an indication of
drunken stupor than anything more serious.
But the woman standing there panting beside him, looking down into
his face, suddenly began to scream. In an instant the servants, who had
probably been hovering around close at hand but loathe to interfere,
rushed precipitately into the room.
“Call a physician! Call a physician! Call the police! Get these people
out of here!” she screamed, repeating the words over and over.
While two servants lifted Monty from the floor to lay him upon a sofa,
another scurried to telephone a doctor, and another addressed himself
to us.
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“I’d advise you to retire as quickly as possible. The Marster appears to
be in a very bad condition. He’s not responsible under the
circumstances, and you’d better be off, seein’ as the Mistress is quite
‘isterical!”
It was a sober and quiet little procession that filed down the stairs and
out into the night air. Monty’s faithful chauffeur, aroused by the
sudden movement and lights about the house, inquired anxiously:
“What’s happened?”
“Oh, Monty staged a row with his wife. He fell down and hit his head
on the fireplace grating,” Zippy answered gloomily.
“Is he hurt?”
“I don’t think so. Get us away from here as quickly as you can.”
The uneasy chauffeur hesitated a moment but finally decided that the
best course was to do as suggested. He put the motor into movement
and the car slid off down the quiet street.
As my thoughts cleared I became aware that Carlota was putting on
her clothes, and for the first time realized that she had left the house
clad in nothing but a silken shift, though she had retained sufficient
presence of mind to grab her clothes and bring them with her, which
reminded me that my own panties were still decorating a chair back
there in the house.
I was not tempted to return for them. The wild emotions of the past
half-hour were passing and I felt weak and faint. A fit of trembling
seized me and I began to cry.
Carlota turned suddenly on me and I was electrified to hear her hiss:
“Damn you! If it hadn’t been for you this would never have happened!”
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“What on earth do you mean?” I gasped, hardly able to believe my
ears. “What did I have to do with it?”
The only answer was a string of curses and maledictions that left me
petrified with astonishment.
Zippy tried in vain to quiet her. She began to shriek.
“Let me out!” she cried hysterically, “let me out!”
Thinking that the excitement and liquor had thrown her into some
kind of a fit, I put my arms around her and tried to sooth her. She
shoved me away with a violent gesture, and screamed:
“Keep your hands off me, you damned little cocksucker, keep your
hands off of me!”
The chauffeur, who of course could hear the clamour, slowed up the
car, and opening the glass window at his back, peered in.
“Here! Here! What’s going on?” he exclaimed anxiously.
“I want to get out! Let me out!” cried Carlota.
“Certainly, you can get out if you want to!” answered the man with
alacrity, and he jumped from his seat to open the door for her.
Carlota literally hurled herself from the car, and sobbing brokenly, ran
off and disappeared in the darkness.
“What… what in the world came over her?” I whispered dazedly,
turning to Zippy, “What will happen to her, running around in the
dark in a drunken fit?”
“Don’t worry about her, Jessie. She can take care of herself.”
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“But… but why did she say such awful things to me? Why doesn’t she
like me? I’ve never offended her or done her any harm!”
“Don’t you know, really?” he asked.
“No I don’t! Do you?” “Why, she’s jealous of you. That’s what’s the
matter with her.”
“Jealous of me?” Why should she be jealous of me?”
“Well, you see, Jessie, she was Monty s girl before he met you.”
“Why! I thought she was your girl!”
“No,” he answered with a resigned gesture. “Monty shoved her off onto
me to keep her pacified. I did the best I could, but I wasn’t up to it.”
“Oh!” I gasped weakly, “Oh!”
Zippy placed an arm over my shoulder and patted me
sympathetically. “Monty is a good scout but he takes some wild
chances. We all must have been crazy to let him take us to his house
tonight.”
“I didn’t want to go; I tried to talk him out of it, but I’m glad now I went. I
found out several things I didn’t know before. I never want to see him
again.”
Unable to control my feelings, I began to cry again.
“Cheer up, k**. Don’t let yourself get upset. You have to take things as
they come in this life, the bitter with the sweet.
His arm tightened about me and unresisting I let him draw my head
over against his shoulder where I continued to sob until I was able to
restrain myself. This Zippy was a nice chap. I had always liked him but
had never permitted myself to be more than discreetly friendly with
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him on Carlota’s account. There was comfort and consolation in the
sympathetic pressure of his arm, and soon I felt better.
“Will you come to see, me sometime?” I murmured. “I’m not going to
have anything more to do with Monty.”
“Of course I will, if you want me. I couldn’t ask you before because,
well, it just isn’t cricket to poach on another man’s preserves.”
“That’s how I felt about Carlota. What a dummy I was! I knew from the
way she acted there was something wrong, but I didn’t have sense
enough to suspect what it was. No wonder she didn’t like me!”
The big automobile was rolling along smoothly and quietly and within
another twenty-five, minutes or so I would be back in my room.
Dawn was not far off, but it was still dark outside.
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CHAPTER 17
So quickly does the heart respond to kindly words in moments of
distress that already a tender feeling for Zippy was taking root. He was
really nice and he was good-looking too. I put my feet up under me on
the car seat, and cuddled down against him with my head resting on
his lap. The soft vibration of the car was soothing to the nerves and soon
I felt quite comfortable.
Under the pressure of my shoulders on his lap I became aware of a
disturbing element which started a new train of thoughts. I moved my
body so that I could lay my hand on the disturbance, even squeeze it
softly. It immediately became more pronounced and grew into a small
riot. For several minutes nothing was said.
The next thing I knew his trousers were unbuttoned, the cause of the
agitation was out in the open and my head was being impelled down
over it by hands which exerted a firm pressure.
I was surprised at such directness, but not displeased.
“The chauffeur?” I whispered questioningly.
For answer Zippy reached over me, manipulated a switch, and
darkness equal to that outside descended upon the interior of the car.
Some fifteen or twenty minutes later two discreet notes of the siren
advised us that my destination was near. When the car stopped and I
stepped out, the sky was tinted in the east. The night was lifting. Dawn
was at hand.
I ran up the steps, rang the bell, and after a long wait the door was
opened by the night maid. Within less than ten minutes all told, I was
in bed and sound asleep.
I slept for at least five hours, but I would have sworn that it was not over
five minutes before I was dragged from my lethargic slumber by a
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violent shaking and insistent voices which continued relentlessly until
I finally sat up to protest the commotion.
“Wake up, Jessie! Wake up!”
It was Hester who was repeating the disagreeable phrase and shaking
me insistently, but as my vision cleared I saw Madame Lafronde
standing nearby, and several girls besides.
There was something in their faces which dispelled the last vestige of
sleep, and I now saw that Madame Lafronde was holding a newspaper.
“Wake up, Jessie! Wake up!” pleaded Hester. “Are you awake?”
“Yes! I’m awake! What’s the matter?”
“Oh Jessie, were you with Montague Austin last night? Something
dreadful has happened!”
The blood drained from my face.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“He’s dead, Jessie, he’s dead! There was some kind of trouble in his
home last night or early this morning; there were some girls there, the
police are trying to find them! We thought… we were afraid… maybe
you were mixed up in it! You were out with him last night, weren’t you?
The paper says there were two girls!”
“Let me see the paper!” I gasped, without answering her questions.
Silently, Madame Lafronde placed it in my hands.
Big black headlines screamed at me from across the top of a column on
the front page:
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MONTAGUE AUSTIN DIES UNDER MYSTERIOUS
CIRCUMSTANCES.
I clutched the paper with trembling fingers and tried to read the
smaller print, but my mind refused to concentrate upon the long
drawn-out recital and only blazing fragments detached themselves
here and there to impinge on my consciousness.
“Youngest son of late Sir Weatherford Austin died at an early hour
this morning as the, result of injuries sustained in his own home. Wife in
hysterical collapse unable to give coherent account of tragedy… not
known whether fall was accidental or whether he was knocked down…
died without regaining consciousness… conflicting stories told by
domestics suggestive of bacchanalian revelries motivate investigation
by Scotland Yard… empty bottles and whiskey flasks… intimate
garments left behind… half-naked girls flee with male companion…
identity of man unknown… chauffeur to be interrogated today… victim
has figured in many sensational escapades…”
“Now, Jessie,” said Madame Lafronde not unkindly, seating herself on
the edge of the bed, “for the good of all concerned, let’s get the truth so
we’ll know what to do. Just answer my questions. Were you there?”
“Yes, I was! But I didn’t… none of us… even dreamed he was badly hurt!”
“What happened exactly?”
“He was fighting with his wife. He was drunk and he slipped and fell
and his head struck against the fireplace grating.”
“What were you doing in his house while his wife was there?”
“Well, I… we were, all of us half-drunk and he insisted on taking us
there! I didn’t want to go!”
“Who are these other people?”
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“A girl named Carlota, and a fellow, a friend of Monty’s, everybody
calls him Zippy… I don’t know his right name.”
“Who is this Carlota?”
“I don’t know her full name, either. I’d met her two or three times before
when I was out with Monty and Zippy. I didn’t know it until last night,
but she used to be Monty’s sweetheart.”
“Do either of these people know your name and where you live?”
“Zippy does. Carlotta… I don’t know. Monty might have told her.”
“How did you get here this morning?” “Zippy brought me… in Monty’s
car.” “In Monty’s car? With his chauffeur?” “Yes; you see the
chauffeur… none of us… knew there was anything seriously wrong when
we left.”
“Then the chauffeur knows this address too?”
“I guess he does now, all right.” “All right, k**. If you step fast maybe
you can be out of here before the doorbell starts ringing, and maybe
you can’t. There’s no hard feelings, but you know how it is, I can’t afford
to have any of my girls mixed up in anything like this.”
“I understand. I don’t blame you,” I answered dully, and got out of bed
to dress.
“I’ll have your money ready for you as soon as you’re dressed and we’ll
slip you out the back way… just in case. I’ll give you some address
where you can get on easy if you want to get a new place, but use a
different name and don’t mention having worked here. If you do,
there’s a good chance you’ll be picked up. The police are going to find
out all they can about this affair, and if they get you, there’s no telling
what you’ll have to go through.”
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Hester went with me to carry some of my things and to help find a
room where I would be safe from annoyance. We found one which
appeared to be suitable, and though the landlady looked askance
when she heard I was to occupy it alone, her misgivings were calmed
by the sight of sufficient money to pay a month’s rent in advance, and
my assurance that I would be receiving no “visitors” other than Hester.
The room was cozy and comfortable, but after Hester had gone, such a
feeling of loneliness and wretchedness welled up in my heart that I
threw myself on the little bed and had a long cry.
The next afternoon Hester returned to tell me excitedly that within
less than fifteen minutes after our departure the police, who had
extracted the address from Monty’s chauffeur just as Madame
Lafronde had anticipated, were there looking for me, and in addition
two barristers had called repeatedly in a vain effort to see me. I
shuddered and from then on the little room seemed more like a haven
of refuge than a lonely exile, for I entertained a profound horror of
police and jails, the long months of deadly monotony in the reform
school never having been forgotten.
“They found that girl Carlota, too. She used to be a dancer in a music
hall. And who do you suppose your mysterious friend Zippy turned out
to be?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Who?”
“No less a personage than that polo-playing Lord Beaverbrook! I’ve
seen his picture in the papers lots of times. I think the whole thing will
be hushed up soon. They know it was an accident and that nobody was
much to blame but Austin himself.”
True to Hester’s prediction, references to the scandal disappeared
quickly from the press and no great efforts were made to locate the
missing witness. For a time I entertained the hope that Madame
Lafronde would relent and call me back. But the hope was dissipated
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when Hester sadly informed me that it was futile. She herself had tried
to pave the way for my return only to be told by Madame Lafronde
that though she liked me, I was a “firebrand” and in the best interests of
the business its door must remain closed to me.
Hester came faithfully to visit me for an hour or two every afternoon.
“Did the papers ever hint what Austin and his wife were quarrelling
about?” I asked her.
“Yes; she objected to his having you and those other people drinking
and carousing in the house. Wasn’t that it?”
“Partly, but there was something else… something lots worse than that.”
“What was it, Jessie?”
“He had her half-stripped. He was going to fuck her right there in front
of all of us.”
“Oh, Jessie! What did I tell you about that man? Why wouldn’t you
listen to me?”
She was on the point of tears again and I hastily endeavoured to turn
the conversation into a lighter vein.
“Don’t worry so about me, you sweet old thing! I’ll listen to your advice
in the future. But it’s fierce to be here all alone. Maybe I’ll pay you to
come and sleep with me some night, I’ve got lots of money. I’ll
telephone Lafronde and disguise my voice and ask for a girl, and you
can volunteer.”
“No! I won’t sleep with you, you perverted little woman-fucker!”
“Not even if I pay you?”
“No! Not even if you pay me!”
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“That’s nice! You’d go to a hotel with some woman you don’t even know
and do things with her, but you won’t sleep with me!”
“Jessie, how can you even think of such things after what’s happened?”
“Let’s get undressed and lie down for a little while. You haven’t
anything to do this afternoon.”
“Are you in your right senses?”
“Listen; if you’ll stay, I’ll do it like Heloise did… only nicer!”
“Oh! You’re one of those, too, are you? Well, thanks, I don’t want any
today. When I do, I’ll let you know. How much do you charge?”
“I’ll bet I could make it last you a whole hour!”
“No!”
“Please, darling, sweet Hester! Think of me, locked up here alone in this
room by myself day after day!”
“No! And if I did, you’d be sure to leave the door unfastened so anyone
could open it and walk right in!”
“Look!” I exclaimed, and jumping up I twisted the key in the lock and
held it up before her. “I’ll even hang up a towel over the keyhole so
nobody can peek at us!”
“Well, come on, then! I just want to see if you’re really capable of doing
that, too!”
I had paid a month’s rent, but by the time two weeks had passed I found
the loneliness and inactivity intolerable. Hester had brought a list
with several addresses which Madame Lafronde had prepared, and
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feeling now that there was little likelihood of being bothered by the
police, I set out one afternoon to see if I could find a place.
With one swift glance of appraisal the madam of the first house on the
list invited me to a room, had me undress for a survey of my physical
assets, and immediately began to ply me with flattering and enticing
inducements to join her ménage. I was rather taken aback by such
unexpected eagerness and the assurance of profitable earnings, but
anxious to settle the matter of immediate occupation I accepted her
offer without delving into promises which seemed somewhat
exaggerated.
The bargain was struck. I was shown the room which would be at my
disposition and introduced to several of the young ladies who would
be my future companions. They were a slightly faded lot, considerably
below Madame Lafronde’s standards, and the depressing thought
came over me that my entry into this second-rate bagnio signalled
another step downward towards the abyss. But I shrugged the thought
aside; I could always leave if I didn’t like, it, and told the woman I
would bring my effects in the morning.
Before opening the door for me to leave, she detained me a moment in
the hall.
“Listen dearie,” she murmured in low, wheedling tones, “I forgot to
mention… I don’t suppose it will make any difference… but I’ve got a
special class of trade here… this isn’t a French house exactly, but you
know how it is… most of my best paying regulars like it a little out of
the ordinary… you understand. All the other girls here do it You won’t
mind that, will you dearie?”
Ah! As I digested this bizarre announcement, which fully explained
the cajolements and flattery and alluring promises, the woman
watched my face anxiously, as though to read therein some sign which
would tell her whether the bird was going to fly off affrighted or
remain in the trap.
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For a long moment I stood pensively silent. I knew from the dejected
aspect of the place, the sallow-faced girls, the tarnished furniture, that
the type of men who frequented it would be far, far different from
those I was accustomed to dealing with. Up to the present, my cocksucking
inclinations had been exercised voluntarily, to satisfy my own
sexual cravings. Here, I would be obliged to do it, whether I felt so
inclined or not. I hesitated uncertainly, and then, with a gesture of
indifference, replied:
“I’ll give them what they want.”
And thus, with six short words, did I seal my pact with hell, and bind
myself henceforward to madden the brains of men and corrode their
souls with the bittersweet poison of my sucking lips.

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