Women love kinky sex—and they love to talk about it. But that’s no surprise to the readers of Penthouse. They’ve long enjoyed the erotic confessions of ladies who crave the sweet surrender of submission, the heady thrill of domination, and the sublime pleasure of sexual fetishes. From sex slaves with a penchant for pain to dommes wielding wicked whips, these ladies lay bare their lust and spill all the debaucherous details. Letters to Penthouse XXXXV presents these women’s wildest adventures in their own words—and their torrid tales are anything but vanilla.
Here is a sneak peek at one of these scandalous tales ripped from the latest installment in the Letters to Penthouse series. Read on! They can’t wait to tell you their kinky little secrets.
My husband, Dave, is infatuated with a game-show hostess. If there is one program that he will not miss, it’s hers. I know she looks great, but I’m not chopped liver. At first, my husband’s obsession with the game-show hostess annoyed me, but it didn’t take me long to realize that his “crush” was harmless to our marriage. In fact, as I began to daydream, I realized that his interest in her could actually improve our sex life. My devious mind began working overtime, and I decided to combine our multiple interests: Dave’s love of this tart and our mutual interest in dominance and submission.
Regina now wished she had swapped out her day bag for an evening clutch. The musician was turning out to be a lot better in person than he had sounded on paper, and even though she had experienced her Carson Miller epiphany that afternoon at lunch, she was still giving this date all she had. Everybody at the trendy restaurant had greeted Davy by name when he came in, and they had seated him and Regina at a favorable corner table. There were even free appetizers. It made Regina feel like royalty. She looked across the table with approval.
Davy was a jazz saxophonist, tall but not too tall, blond but not too blond, funny without being sarcastic “” he was basically like that bowl of porridge in Goldilocks that was neither too cool nor too hot but just right. For the first time in a while, Regina was actually considering having sex on the first date, even though that was against all her rules. The fact was, she hadn’t had sex in seven months. It was starting to make her a little tense.
“Tell me more about your music,” she asked. “Do you play every day? Do you make lots of CDs?” She was still trying to figure out if he actually supported himself with jazz or if he came from money. Either one was fine with her, as long as he was ready to commit to a stable, long-term relationship.
“I have gigs most weekends in the city.” Davy took a sip of his single malt. Regina watched the way his sensitive hands gripped the glass and the way his Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed. It had been too long since she’d touched a man’s skin. “I wouldn’t say I make lots of CDs, but I’ve been on a few, my own and my friends’. But,” he said, reaching across the table to touch the tip of her nose, “I put the horn to my lips every day. The horn is like a lady. She needs to know she’s loved.”
Regina blushed and looked down at her lap. The spot where Davy had touched her nose felt hot and tingly. He was her own age, twenty-five, which was much younger than most of the men she dated. Usually she thought men her age were bad bets because they were too irresponsible and still in love with their mothers, but Davy seemed to be pretty independent. He hadn’t brought up his mother at all.
The waitress appeared with a complementary plate of farmstead cheese and set it down between them. The cheeses were beautiful, arrayed in plump little wedges with dried fruits and nuts, but Regina wasn’t hungry for food. She looked back at Davy and found that his huge blue eyes were focused right on her.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said.
Regina’s voice broke a little as she said, “Thank you. I, um, I think you’re very handsome, too.”
God, she sounded like such a dork! It had been so long since she’d had sex that she didn’t really know how it went any more. It seemed like such a long trip from the restaurant table, back through the city streets, to his bed. But he didn’t seem to mind the awkwardness, because he leaned across the table and ran a lock of her straight blonde hair through his fingers.
“You look like a ballerina,” he said.
Regina smiled. Ballet had been her first dream. “I danced pretty seriously until I was about thirteen,” she told him.
“I can tell. You hold yourself like a dancer. Why did you stop?”
She laughed bitterly. “I got boobs and hips. My teacher told me I would never make it. She said I should switch to modern dance. But I didn’t want to.”
“I like your boobs and hips.”
She looked back up into his eyes, and it was a delicious moment, because she knew it was going to happen. The tension hovered in the air between them as she held his blue, blue gaze. Then he rose from the table and offered her his arm.
“They have nice bathrooms here,” he said. “And the cheese will be even better if we let it warm up a little.” She was shocked, but Davy just grinned reassuringly and said, “Come on, baby. Nobody will know.”
Something inside of Regina told her to go for it. She took his hand and followed him into one of the private bathrooms, then made sure nobody was looking as she slipped in behind him. He was right that the bathroom was nice. A scented candle burned on the back of the toilet and a cheerful vintage poster advertised milk. She gazed at the clean lines of Davy’s face reflected in the silver mirror above the sink. He took a sip of his single malt, which he had smuggled into the bathroom.
“You work too hard,” he said.
Regina was shocked to feel her eyes fill with tears. It was true. She did work too hard. She was amazed that this man she had just met could read her so well.
“You have to know how to relax, too,” he told her.
She shivered as Davy traced a finger down her cheek. His hands were so warm and strong. “Now why don’t you lift up your skirt and let me help you relax.”
Regina took a step back, but Davy leaned into her and kissed the side of her neck. As she breathed in the smell of him “” equal parts aftershave and single malt “” her pussy began to throb. She glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door. Through the thin wood, she could hear the sounds of people talking, china clinking, and martinis being shaken.
She hated public sex, but this wasn’t exactly public.
“Go on,” Davy said. “You need some sexual healing.”
Maybe if they didn’t make any noise, nobody else in the restaurant would suspect. She shyly slid the hem of her tunic up over her hips.
Davy studied her, stroking his soul patch in an exaggerated manner. “Hmm. Zees case appears to be serious,” he said in a goofy accent. “But ve must remove ze tights to see zee full progress of zee disease.”
His goofy humor made Regina relax. She giggled as he got on his knees and reached up to hook his fingers around her waistline. With a swift motion, he yanked the tights down about her calves. The air was cool against the exposed skin of Regina’s thighs.
“Oh no! Zis is vorse that I suspected!” Davy studied her Hanky Pankys with shock. “I am afraid ze panties vill have to be amputated.”
She gave him her best helpless look. “Isn’t that a drastic step, Doctor? They were sixteen dollars.”
Davy hooked his thumb through the front panel of the lacy yellow thong and pulled it to one side and then another. Regina inhaled sharply as the elastic fabric stretched taught between the lips of her pussy.
God, it had been so long!
She couldn’t help leaning toward Davy, wanting the pressure of the fabric even harder against her sensitive clit, but then he let go, clicking his tongue in concern.
“Ve haf no alternative. If ve don’t amputate now, ze disease may spread to your bra.”
She laughed and closed her eyes. “Do it quickly then, Doctor! I’m ready.”
“You’re very brave,” he growled.
Regina shivered as she felt the warmth of his hands slide down between her thong and her skin. Her clit puckered as the backs of his knuckles brushed against it. It was a little scary being touched right there, where she was so vulnerable, after so much time. Davy caressed her thighs as he slid the thong down to her ankles, leaving her pussy bare to him, and then, with surprising strength, he lifted her up and set her on the marble countertop of the sink.
“Now ve must sterilize ze area.”
He parted the lips of her pussy, so gently that he barely touched her. Regina tried to keep quiet as he picked the glass of Macallan up off the toilet and set the edge of it right over her clit. The rim of the glass drew the hood back, exposing the most sensitive, throbbing point of her.
A stream of rich, wet liquid flowed over her skin. It trickled along the lips of her pussy to gather in little beads in her dark blonde hair, and all the places it touched burned with a pleasant, urgent heat. It slid between her inner thighs so the fabric of her skirt got wet with it and clung to her buttocks and hips. It joined with Regina’s own juices, now flowing freely from the mouth of her pussy. She was sticky all over and everything smelled like smoky peat and seawater.
Davy took the glass away from her and licked the last drops out of it. Grinning, he bent forward to lap at her open cunt. Regina gripped his hair and pressed him into her, squeezing his face between her thighs. She wanted it so bad. His tongue made eager circles around her opening, then pressed inside.
She tried to keep still and quiet, but the growing climax made her squirm. All those nights alone in bed, dreaming of meeting Mr. Right, once in a while opening her bedside drawer and pulling out the tiny vibrator her college roommate had bought her “” that was nothing like this. Sex was so much better with a real person.
She lifted her legs and pressed the soles of her shoes flat against the locked bathroom door. Regina braced herself. She had been so focused on staffing Green Money and keeping Carson happy that she hadn’t come in days. The thought of Carson made her start back guiltily.
Davy lifted his face from her and smiled. “Just relax and let yourself go, baby. I’m having a great time.” Regina stroked his smooth cheeks. It was true that Carson was the big prize, but there was Mr. Right and then there was Mr. Right Now. What was important was that Davy had just slipped a thumb inside her pussy. She felt herself clamping down on him.
“Come for me, beautiful!”
God, it felt so good! Regina had never enjoyed head before. She had always been too worried”"that she smelled weird, that she tasted bad, that men wouldn’t marry a girl they ate out. But all those worries were gone now. She just felt relaxed and delicious.
She pressed her feet harder against the opposite wall and squeezed Davy’s face between her inner thighs. He locked his mouth to her clit and sucked and sucked until delicious contractions racked her pussy. She came explosively on his tongue, her feet twitching, her ass convulsing against the sink. A final rush of fluid soaked her skirt, mixing with the smoky liquor.
Davy flushed the little toilet, and the rush of water drowned out his triumphant howl. He splashed water on his face, then gave her his arm.
Regina teetered on her heels. The muscles in her thighs felt rubbery. “But don’t you want me to . . . you know . . .”
He smiled. “Plenty of time for that when we get back to your place.”
“Oh.” Regina followed him back to the table.
The waitress smiled at them archly, but she seemed to be keeping their secret. She refilled Regina’s wine and set a fresh glass of Scotch down for Davy. “Your purse was ringing,” she told Regina. Then she put a hand on Davy’s shoulder. “Chef says it’s on him.”
Davy smiled. “Thanks, Lisa!”
“Wow,” Regina said as she fished out her Blackberry. “They really like you here, huh?”
“Yeah, well, I wait tables part time.”
She froze. “What?”
“I thought I told you that before!” He laughed. “Nobody ever got rich playing jazz, baby!”
This would normally have been a deal-breaker, but Regina’s pussy was still experiencing light aftershocks from the saxophonist’s skill. In addition, an inspection of her Blackberry revealed a euphoric text from Lorelei reporting that Sophie Steele had accepted Green Money’s offer. That meant a 5K bonus! A swank gym membership! Plus extra left over.
She smiled at Davy. She was feeling clement. Maybe his career would pick up. It showed a lot of determination to work part-time while pursuing his art.
“Should we go back to your place?” she asked.
“Let’s go to yours.”
Regina lived far away in Astoria. Her studio was very small and there was a nosy landlady on the ground floor. “I’d really prefer we go to yours,” she said.
Davy reddened and took another sip of Scotch. Regina’s brain began to take back control from her pussy.
“Why don’t you want me to see your place?” she asked.
“No, it’s not that! It’s just . . . well, my mother has to get up really early in the morning and”"”
“You live with your mother?”
“Yeah, but she’s cool, don’t worry!” His blue eyes became puppy-like with devotion. “She’s, like, the ideal woman.”
“Thanks for dinner, Davy.” Regina grabbed her day bag and left the restaurant.
Grushenka, or Three Times A Woman, appeared in 1933. There was confusion at first as to whether or not the book was truly a translation of a nineteenth-century Russian novel, as the mysterious translator “J.D.” claimed. Although there seemed to be inconsistencies and anachronisms, no one argued that it wasn’t one of the best-written erotic books they had ever come across, obviously the work of a skilled professional author. Truth is that Grushenka is an American novel, authored by Val Lewton, a Hollywood scriptwriter, perhaps best remembered for his original screenplay for The Cat People.
In summary, Grushenka is a Fanny Hill-type story set in brutal Imperial Russia at the beginning of the eighteenth century. It recounts the history of the heroine from her beginnings as a serf and through her ultimate success as the madam of a celebrated brothel. This excerpt traces her initiation into the lascivious Russian demimonde. Her mistress, an aged, impoverished embroideress, is only too happy to send Grushenka to Katerina, housekeeper to Prince Sokolow and Princess Nelidowa, who live in the then-provincial town of Moscow. The princess is in need of an identically proportioned serf to help her model clothing a living mannequin. But the imperious princess becomes jealous of her lovely double, and turns the willing Grushenka into something like a house concubine with dramatic results.
The reader seeking sexual verisimilitude accurate contemporary descriptions like those found in Cleland’s Fanny Hill, say, or Sellon’s Ups and Downs of Life will be disappointed. But anyone who can appreciate a lusty novel set in the bedrooms of Imperial Russia will be amply rewarded. Grushenka will be continued next month.
The droshky driver, warmed by a drink from a nearby public house, saluted Katerina, the old housekeeper, cheerfully and coaxed her to hire him again. He hoped that her eminence had completed her mission perfectly and that he could drive her home at roaring speed. Katerina let him know that she had been unsuccessful and that she would have to give up. Then the befuddled driver remembered that she wanted to hire some girls, and anew praised the goods which his cousin wanted to be rid of. He’d drive her over quickly and
Katerina looked at the sun. It was still early. She climbed into the carriage, which answered with a sigh, bending to her weight.
We soon see Katerina heavily breathing while climbing up a creaking and steep staircase to the cousin’s attic. It turned out that this cousin, a thin spinster of about fifty years, was handling an embroidery business on a small scale that she had two girls working for her and that she wanted to give up her enterprise and leave Moscow in order to stay with relatives in the south. Lacking money for the long trip, the fee from the girls’ new employer should provide the means. Katerina was led into the adjoining room, a large, very light attic room, bare of any furniture except a work-table crowded with materials of all kinds.
On a bench before this table, bent over their work, sat two girls. The cousin commanded them to rise and it was then that Katerina uttered a cry of amazement. One of the girls was an exact duplicate of her princess at least her face and features were so perfectly like those of her mistress that Katerina first feared a spook might have tricked her. Still, the face did not matter at all. It was only the right contours of the body which were sought. The height was right, the form seemed so, and Katerina hastily demanded that this dark-haired girl with the shining blue eyes be stripped. The other girl was a short, flat-nosed, sturdy creature and Katerina disregarded her. Not so the cousin. She made it quite clear that she would not part with one girl alone it must be both or neither. Katerina mumbled that all that could be arranged just let her see the dark one.
The girls flushed slightly, looked at each other and at the cousin, and stood sheepishly. The cousin demanded to know whether the dark girl had become deaf and when she wanted to take her clothes off. With excited fingers, the buttons of the blouse opened then came a bodice of common linen, strapped and fastened with many ribbons and, from underneath a rough chemise, stood out two full and hard breasts with deep-red nipples.
Katerina, the never-smiling, grinned. It was the kind of bust she was looking for. The wide skirt of flowered and cheap material fell to the floor and a pair of wide trousers, reaching to the ankles, came to view. A bush of thick black hair protruded through the open slit of the drawers, which was there for the sake of commodity.
Soon shirt and drawers were also removed and Katerina eyed her find with growing satisfaction. She went around and around the nude girl. The waistline was perfect the legs full and female, but subtle and the flesh of the ass seemed to be even softer than that of her mistress. To find out, she came close to the girl and felt her body. She was content. This was not the usual peasant type. This was not a tough and common brat. This girl had the form of an aristocrat.
Katerina remembered her measurements, took out her ribbons and began her comparisons. Well, the height was almost perfect a little too tall, but she could tolerate that small difference. The length of the back, the breasts, the waistline, the thickness of the thighs were right, or what one might call right. Even the wrists and the ankles filled. It turned out that the length of the legs, measured from the slit to the floor, was a trifle too long, but Katerina had already resolved that this girl was most suitable.
When the last measurement was taken and Katerina, kneeling on the floor, had touched the pussy, the girl had drawn slightly and irritatedly back. For the rest, she had behaved quietly and with that absence of shamefulness or shyness characteristic of other girls. These girls did not know of the existence of anything like shame.
The bargaining started. Katerina wanted to hire only the dark girl and she did not want to pay more than fifty rubles the blonde imp was not wanted. The cousin shrieked that then he didn’t need to hire the dark girl either. While Katerina zealously defended the money of her master, the blonde girl leaned against the table and the nude dark one stood motionless in the middle of the room with hanging arms, as if she had nothing to do with the affair. The driver here and there interjected an appeasing word from the door, where he loitered as a witness waiting for a handsome commission. The cousin was thin and hard. Katerina was eager to get what she wanted and, after a battle, the old housekeeper’s hand went into the bodice which covered her enormous bosom and brought to light an ugly leather purse, from which she paid the cousin ninety rubles in glittering gold. She had gotten the fee down from the demanded hundred, but she had to hire both girls.
No, she was not sending a carriage for them. She was going to take both with her. She was afraid she might lose her precious discovery. They would start immediately. The girls had nothing to pack. They had no belongings except some woolen kerchiefs and the like, which were quickly made into a bundle. After the dark girl was hurriedly dressed again, Katerina took a quick leave with her hirelings, though not without assuring the cousin anew that the fee requested had been outrageous. The cousin made the sign of the cross over the departing girls. They, in turn, automatically and without feeling kissed the hem of her dress and soon the three women sat in the carriage. The driver was paid a little distance from Sokolow’s house and received what he demanded. It is quite sure that, with this money and the commission from his cousin, he was senselessly drunk for several days afterward.
Starting toward the palace, Katerina asked the dark girl what her name was. “Grushenka,” answered the girl, readily. That was the first word she spoke after becoming one of the uncounted souls in the employ of Prince Alexey Sokolow. She did not know then the name of her new master.
Peter the Great had done away with the seclusion of women who had lived before then in the Oriental life of the harem. He had forced them into society, where they were at first so awkward that he got them drunk in order to loosen them up. He had lifted the aristocratic caste to an elevated position by forcing the working class into unheard-of servitude and submission. He had by the most cruel tortures, in which he participated personally, built up a social order in which might was god and the serf a slave. He had forced Western culture upon his nobles and one of his orders had been that they should build themselves great castles and houses.
Alexey Sokolow was only a score of years the junior of this great ruler. While eager to take all the advantages which were offered to his class, he had enough cunning to see that it was wiser to stay away from the inner court circle, where the greatest generals and high officials were uncertain as to when they would find themselves on the rack or the wheel and eventually beheaded. Sokolow had therefore established his city life in Moscow instead of St. Petersburg, and in Moscow he had erected the magnificent palace which can be seen to this day.
Katerina dismissed the droshky a few blocks away, so as not to be seen by other servants riding in a hired carriage, and she led the two bewildered girls to the huge arch of the main entrance, which was guarded by two soldiers with muskets, high tin helmets and high boots. They paid no attention to the three women who quickly entered the archway and were admitted to the inner courtyard.
Flowers, lampoons, grass, even bushes, covered the tremendous square of the inner court. Tables, chairs and benches stood about in great disorder. This courtyard was normally a barren place of cobblestones, but the princess had given an entertainment the night before for which the flowers and grass had been raised in hothouses in the country.
Katerina gave her wards no time to look or to think. She hurried them through the court and down a stone staircase to the basement, which consisted of endless halls and rooms and kitchens. Here Katerina left the blonde girl with a woman who seemed to be an overseer of this underground labyrinth. She then took Grushenka by the hand and marched on with her. This time she led her up a small and winding wooden staircase, which ended at the second floor. Thick turkish carpets covered the light hallway and Grushenka soon saw a room which she was going to know very thoroughly afterwards. It was the dressing room of the princess, furnished with a big oak table in the middle and huge chestnut closets and presses along the walls, between which mirrors of all kinds had been installed.
On a curt order from Katerina, the girl took all her clothes off and, entirely nude, was led by the old housekeeper through other rooms, which were magnificently adorned with silks and brocades. Through the half-open door of her mistress’ boudoir, Katerina led the substitute of madam. In her excitement, she didn’t wait for permission to enter.
The princess was sitting before a mirror at her toilet table. Boris, the coiffeur, was busy curling her long, dark-brown hair. A young serf girl knelt on the floor and put rouge on her mistress’ toenails. In the corner, near a window, sat “Fraulein,” an elderly spinster who had been a German governess in different houses of the great and who was now reading aloud in a dry and monotonous voice some French poetry. The princess listened with slight understanding or interest. The poet had worked into his fable all kinds of persons from Greek and Latin mythology, which meant nothing to the capricious listener. But when he described how the enormous shaft of Mars was pushed into the grotto of Venus, that called for noticeable attention.
In her mirror Princess Nelidowa had seen Katerina appear with Grushenka and waved angrily not to be disturbed. So Grushenka had an opportunity to study the group just described. The princess wore only a short batiste chemise which left her more or less uncovered. She did not mind that Boris, clad in the formal house uniform of the Sokolows, with a long pigtail at his back, could see her nudity, because he was only a serf. He had been sent to Dresden some years ago to learn the art of hairdressing with a very famous master in the Saxonian capital. Sokolow had intended to rent him out to one of the ladies’ hairdressing parlors recently opened in Moscow, but the princess had taken the clever fellow into her private service. He was responsible for her many tufts and locks worn in the daytime and for her powdered wigs, decorated with precious stones, which went with the evening gowns.
When the reading of the poem ceased, Katerina could restrain herself no longer. “I have her! I have her!” she cried and dragged Grushenka closer to the princess. “I found a substitute who fits perfectly and she is ours now!”
“I know you could have found her sooner,” said Nelidowa maliciously. “But you’ll be forgiven since you dug her up at last. Now show me, does she really have the same measurements that I have or are you lying to me?” She rose hastily from her stool, so that poor Boris was in danger of burning her with his hot irons.
“She truly fits,” answered Katerina. “Here, I’ll show you.” And she took out the multicolored ribbons to prove the fact. But Nelidowa was not interested in that. With sharp eyes she scrutinized Grushenka’s body and was not dissatisfied.
“So that is how I look! A full pair of good breasts, aren’t they? But mine are better! ” and taking out, without concern, her own breasts from her thin shirt and holding them close to Grushenka’s, she started a minute comparison “Mine are oval and that is rare, but this slob’s are round. Look at her nipples! How big and common!” and she tickled with her own nipples those of the girl.
Now it is true that there was a slight difference, but hardly noticeable. Nelidowa then took hold of Grushenka’s waist with both hands and did not handle her too tenderly.
“I always said,” the mistress continued, “that I have an excellent waistline, and here one can see it. Among all the court ladies, not one can compare with me.”
That it was not her own waistline she admired, but that of her new girl, did not come to her mind. She proceeded to the thighs, which she pinched, and was surprised by Grushenka’s very soft flesh. “My legs,” she commented, displaying now her own thighs and squeezing them a bit, “are sturdier than those of this little bitch, but we’ll take the softness out of her.” With mock laughter, she commanded Grushenka to turn around.
Nelidowa, as well as Grushenka, had a remarkably well-modeled back: round female shoulders, soft and full lines down to the bottom, small and well-rounded hips. Only Grushenka’s buttocks were too small, almost boyish, and went too evenly and straight to the thighs. Her legs and feet were normal and straight and could have been used by artists as models.
“Now!” laughed the princess. “This is the first time that I see my own back and truly I like it. Isn’t it fine that this tramp should have just my back?”
The witnesses of this scene, especially Katerina, were astonished by the similarity between these two women as they stood close together. It was astounding to see that not only their figures but their features and faces were so much alike that one could have sworn they were twin sisters. Nature sometimes plays tricks of that kind. Grushenka was younger she had a whiter skin she blushed in her excitement and looked fresher. Also, her flesh was softer and a bit more feminine-looking than that of Nelidowa, and she had a timid bearing and was not so self-contained as the princess. Otherwise, they were strangely alike, though no one would have dared to tell this to the princess.
“I am pleased with you and I’ll present you with my new prayer book with the pictures of the saints in it, which you admired the other day. It’s yours. Go and get it.” Katerina, with a deep curtsy, kissed her mistress’ hand, overjoyed that she had at last satisfied her. She was taking the girl out of the room when she was stopped by a parting injunction from her mistress, who watched the nude form depart.
“By the way, Katerina, have all the hair under her arms and on her dirty cunt removed so that she doesn’t infect my garments. And have her spotlessly washed and powdered. You know how filthy these pigs are.” Katerina assured her she would have the girl properly bathed, groomed and dressed.
A few days later, Grushenka had to show her mistress a new costume, a light-blue, fluffy affair with many ribbons and laces. The princess had liked it and incidentally had ordered the girl to show her cunt. Grushenka lifted the costume carefully in front, and another girl spread the slit of her trousers open, while the princess took a good look. Nelidowa was thinking that if that pussy before her eyes should be used often, the rosy and thin lips would certainly become thick and vulgar. Hence, the order to Katerina that Grushenka was to be fucked daily and that Katerina should supply various men in order that the business be attended to properly.
Grushenka was delighted to hear it, but Katerina disliked this new order, for which she could not imagine the reason. She moved Grushenka’s bed to a separate room in the basement and, after dinner, gave the girl her instructions. First she gave her a salve and ordered her to smear it every day after dinner into her vagina. This salve was to kill the sperm. The irrigations, to be taken afterward, would make doubly sure that she should not get an enlarged belly.
Presently she sent a young stableman to the girl’s room, a red-haired, freckled, undersized man, who grinned with delight. When the call had come to the stable, the men threw dice for the trick and the redhead was much envied when he won.
Grushenka was sitting on her bed when he entered the room. She held one hand over her breasts the other clutched her thin dress in front. She was very beautiful and the stableman promised to be careful and explained to her, being a nice chap, that if she followed his suggestions, they could both enjoy it profoundly.
Grushenka promised to do all he said and he proceeded with great care. He tickled her pussy with the point of his shaft for a while and then inserted it by degrees, moving always a bit back and shuffling it in again, each time more, until his hair rubbed closely against her well-shaven mount of Venus. He then inquired whether it had hurt and Grushenka answered in a soft, wondering voice, “Just a bit. Do be careful.”
But it had not hurt her at all. It was just a funny feeling, not exactly exciting, but pleasing. He told her to move her ass slowly up and down, which she did, while he lay stiff and strong, until he started to heave and push, finally forgetting himself and fucking quite to his heart’s content. Grushenka did not answer his strokes, but she held her arms close to his back and, when he finally came, she pressed her cunt firmly against his belly and felt satisfaction when his hot scum spread into her insides.
He had not had enough. He stayed in her bed, joking with her. He played around with her breasts and her cunt, laughed to see that she was shaved and pinched her bottom good-heartedly. She was amazed at how quickly he got stiff again and she did not fight him off when he put his prick in anew. This time her nervousness was gone. Still she did not get a thrill out of it, although it felt rather pleasant even more pleasant than the first time.
This time he had to work harder to get the load out of his balls. She assisted him very little, although she caressed his back with her hand shyly and tried to make her cunt as tight as possible, so that the slippery machine down there could get as much friction as possible. After he had come, she started to move and to heave. She wanted something more now herself, but he slipped his tired love-shaft out of her. She was tired and slept so soundly that they had a hard time getting her up next morning.
Every night after dinner, a man came to fuck her. Sometimes they were elderly and did not undress but just laid her over the bed and fucked her and disappeared. Sometimes they were hardly older than Grushenka and so shy that she had a great time teasing them and working them up and finally seducing them so many times that they walked from the room with weak knees.
Grushenka learned to love fucking more than she ever had before coming to the palace. She learned to get the supreme thrill with every man half a dozen times if she liked her partner. She learned how to make love and soon became a passionate lover. The male servants in the house, most of whom tried her out, praised her with glittering eyes. What a girl! What a figure! What a piece of ass! A volcano!
These were fine weeks, weeks of thrills, weeks during which her body filled out and her mind became clear, weeks without dreams, full of reality. She looked at other girls with searching curiosity. She learned from them about their love affairs. She studied her mistress with appraising eyes. Couldn’t she manage to get a nice husband and a little house with some acres and have children, too? Why not? She learned who was influencing the master and the mistress she made plans she laid eyes on one of the best body servants of the prince and, though she never spoke with him or had intercourse with him, she believed she had fallen in love with him. All that ended of a sudden, however, and it was again her mistress who affected the change, her mistress who was by right and law Grushenka’s destiny.
Nelidowa used to start many things, giving many orders, and then forgetting about them again. Her mind wandered. Everything was done in a haphazard way. But Nelidowa remembered one night, when she came from the bedroom of her husband, after working over his prick for some time, that Grushenka had been her means of finding out how a cunt would change by frequent fucking so she sent for her.
Grushenka had had a quick and meaningless poke from an elderly man that night about an hour before and was still awake when the handmaiden of Nelidowa came for her. She put a bed sheet around her shoulders and walked nude and barefoot to her highness’ bedchamber. It must be remembered that all people, high or low, male or female, slept without nightshirts at that time, and it is said that Marie Antoinette, some fifty years later, was the first one to create the mode. Nelidowa had just washed her pussy and was sitting naked before her toilet table while one of her maids braided her long black hair into pigtails.
Nelidowa was in a good mood and told Grushenka to wait until her hair was done. In a few minutes, she took the nude girl on her lap. She inquired whether Grushenka had been poked daily, whether the pricks had been big and long, whether she had learned to fuck properly and whether she liked it. Grushenka automatically answered yes to every question. Then Nelidowa gently parted the girl’s legs and examined her pussy.
There was no change to be seen. The little love-nest was tender and innocent, as though it had never held big male machines. The lips were perhaps more red, and fuller, but still firmly closed and thin. The princess opened them and fingered the girl, who quivered under this caress. The princess parted her own legs a little and wondered at her own cunt, which was wide open with thick flappy lips. Apparently it was not fucking but the hand of nature which had made the difference between their cunts.
Crimson Hairs, by the pseudonymous Whidden Graham, is an American original. First published in 1934, it is an erotic mystery tale that is explicitly sexual.
The time is Prohibition and homicide detective Morris Sarnelli, known as Handsome to the girls, takes a personal interest in an unidentified corpse found in the basement of a brownstone in a fashionable neighborhood of Manhattan. Certain aspects of the case, sexual aspects to his mind, cause him to pursue the investigation on his own. Sarnelli is slowly drawn into New York’s sexual underground as he pursues the case. Conducting floor by floor interviews with the occupants of the brownstone, he discovers their erotic proclivities and enters into one strange sexual experience after another. No clue or aspect of human sexual practice is left untried.
Aficionados of 1930s’ detective thrillers should recognize the language and style of the story. The action is fast-paced, the slang true to the times and the mystery is sometimes placed on hold as the characters’ love lives get the better of them. By the time the murder is solved, no one really seems to care the sex has taken precedence. A crimson hair among the victim’s pubes, incidentally, provides the clue with which Sarnelli cracks the case.
Sarnelli woke up the next morning refreshed and unperturbed. The adventure with Rita had disgusted more than stirred him. He had seen too many nude women and they offered themselves to him too easily. To hell with them all. What he was angry about was that he had made no progress whatever in his case. He had to call up the Inspector and tell him about it. It was annoying. The Carr fellow was a clue. He wished he knew more about him. The man was highly intelligent and cagey. Did he really go around with women now or was that just to distract the detective’s attention? There were many who were bisexual. Better have a talk with those girls downstairs. If Carr could release his dark and Oriental passion with females, or into females, then he was not under much suspicion, for he could more easily free himself from the fairies. Rita certainly had nothing to do with the case, and Edna and Bertha had to be eliminated also. They were not persons who would commit a violent deed themselves, nor did they consort with persons of uncontrolled temperaments. The same might be said for the janitress and her friend Francisca.
After breakfast Sarnelli went down to the basement. He searched the premises again and again. All of a sudden, he was startled. Somebody must have been in there. The water was dripping from the faucet. Oh, and there that pile of junk had been touched. Nay, it had been washed, it seemed. In fact, several of the pieces were still a bit wet. What did that mean? The janitress, confronted with those facts, disputed hotly that nobody could have been in the cellar. It was locked now and the keys were in the hands of the detective and herself alone. Her key was hanging on the wall, right over there by the pot, in case any of the police should drop in and want to see the basement again. Sarnelli agreed that he might be seeing things. But he was sure now that somebody connected with the case was living right here in the house and had a reason for tinkering around downstairs. Why? Washing off fingerprints? Prints on things in the junk pile? He went downstairs again and studied the pile. He could not see the connections as yet. Well, patience was the first duty of a sleuth. It was with a mental reservation that he phoned to Inspector McGarven that he was probably right about it being a suicide case. No clues, no. But he would like to stay on a bit longer. That was granted, especially because McGarven said to himself that the boy had something up his sleeve.
Time had passed with all this but it was still too early to call on Paula Eltz. She was a kept girl and slept late. After a walk, though, it was time to see her.
She answered his ring with repeated inquiries of “Who is there?” before she opened the door quite reluctantly. Of course, she would have a talk with him and help him in any way she could, but she did not know anything and her attitude showed that she wanted to be left alone. Intending not to let her get away with it, he sat down for a stay. Paula refused all personal questions with the reply that she would have to see her lawyer as to whether she must answer at all.
Paula was about twenty-three years old, with light brown hair that was probably dyed. She was a good-looking bitch of medium height. Her mouth showed that she had been through plenty and was hard-boiled. But her grey-blue eyes had stamina and temperament. Sarnelli decided to become personal and complimented her on her tasteful pajamas, her lovely complexion, and made a play for her with a charming and boyish grin, which usually took the women in quickly enough. But she remained taciturn and annoyed.
“Well, young lady, I’m sorry you dislike me so much personally, and I hope I haven’t done anything to offend you. I wish you’d help me along a bit…”
“I dislike dicks, that’s all.”
“What have they done to you?”
“Plenty…I mean, nothing nothing at all. I just dislike the whole bunch of them. Any other questions? Or can we end our conversation now?”
Sarnelli made a quick shift in attack: “You know I’m from headquarters and, of course, we looked up everybody before we started this investigation. We looked you up also, of course.”
“Nothing…We know. That’s all. The neighborhood here does not know and you’re just a charming young lady who has a still more charming friend with a pocketbook. You see, that’s something that does not concern us, but…”
Paula became rather hysterical at once. She became pale and squirmed around.
“I have no money and if I had any, I would not give it to you. I wouldn’t. Understand? I wouldn’t.”
Sarnelli pricked his ears. So this dame had a past? Really better look up her record, if she is not living under an assumed name. He smiled: “Lady, that must surprise you. I do not want any money. I do not need it, thank you, and I would not take it from anyone, most certainly not from a woman.”
“That’s what you dicks are after. What else are you living on, you…” She started to cry but caught herself and looked bravely up at him. Sarnelli saw the change in her attitude.
“If I meet a nice young lady like you, I do not take her money. I always like to give her some. See…” And he displayed a small bankroll from his pocket.
“Marked money, eh?”
This time he laughed heartily. Then he explained to her that he had nothing whatever to do with the boys from the vice squad, that he considered the prosecution of prostitution a terrible legal mistake. Prostitution was one of the oldest and most lucrative businesses in the world and, if run in an orderly way, a blessing to men. But when conducted under hypocritical laws, secretly, it was a curse to everyone. She agreed to all this and looked at him. His frank speech and manly looks appealed to her and she offered him a cigarette. This little token was the beginning of the friendship. In the most casual way, he took her hand and drew her onto his lap. Soon enough he knew all there was to know about her.
Rent, food, clothes and about thirty to forty dollars per week was what her friend paid. A decent businessman, easy to handle, never drunk. Only she never knew when she might be wanted. He called her up when he desired to see her and made a date that she had to keep strictly on time. Of course, he collected what he was paying for. She had been steady with him for two years and had been true to him. Yes, she knew different madames who would have liked to have her name on their phone lists, but why jeopardize a comfortable arrangement. She had something on her mind: Supposing a girl had been once in a jam, quite innocently, when she was still dumb, and supposing there was a record of her in the police files, was there no way of getting that record destroyed? He gave her advice and promised to help her. She was really a nice kid, he would say, a decent kid. She warmed up to him. She felt he meant what he said and that he was a swell guy. Before they knew it, they hugged and kissed each other, at first more in the way of play or a joke, but after that, real desire came into the picture. She tickled his ears with kisses, and he started feeling her full breasts, until his hand reached for her pussy. She whispered:
“What’s the use of struggling against it? Come on, let’s have it. I’m going to give you the ‘grand treatment’ and you are going to be a good boy and just keep still and do everything I say. I haven’t done that to anyone for a long, long time. My boyfriend is so decent, you know, and he’d be shocked if he ever learned that his little flower that’s what he always calls me even knows about such things.”
She slipped off his lap, pulled the shades down, ran to the front door and locked it, and dragged him into her bedroom. A cozy bedroom with black silken bed sheets that would appeal to every sensuous woman. Sarnelli hesitated for a moment. It certainly had not been his purpose to have a party now, but that was just his nature. When he felt like it, he forgot whether it was reasonable or not, and why not?
She made him take all his clothes off and lie down on the bed, his hands folded behind his head. She did not allow him to touch her she did not want to be disturbed, as she put it. She quickly removed her pajamas and for a moment looked him over with greedy eyes. His naked form enticed her. Lean and tall, the figure of a sportsman, muscular and strong. She was glad she had captured him for her own pleasure she liked men.
He, also, was quite satisfied. In the dim light her flesh showed white and soft her nipples were very large and deep brown the hair around her pussy was thin and of a blondish color, while the lips of her cunt were open and looked hungry. Her bottom was too small for his taste, but her whole figure seemed soft and mobile. It would be a pleasure to be encircled by her.
She kissed his forehead and his face, took his lips in her mouth and kissed and bit them softly. Her hands stroked his body. It was an exciting massage she gave him first his chest, while sucking his nipples, and then stroking his belly and continuing down over his muscular limbs. She massaged him with both her soft hands, with expert knowledge of the nerves, and already he had difficulty in keeping his buttocks from moving around. She kissed his belly and started to lick it with long strokes of her firm and apt tongue. Meanwhile, her hands played with the curls around his tool and tickled his balls. But she did not touch his love-shaft, which stood full-blown and straight in the air, longing for a resting place. She ignored it entirely and teased him with prolonged appetite.
Then she made him turn over and the same procedure took place along his spine and over his firm ass-cheeks and thighs. Finally she settled down and sucked and licked and kissed him, so that he shivered through his whole body. It was almost torture but he stood it. Finally, she crawled into bed, sat straddle-legged over him and pressed her pussy against his neck. She bent forward and glued her mouth to his tool. She surprised him by giving it a long and passionate sucking. It was a long time since any woman had kissed him there. But this kid certainly was an artist. What a wonderful sensation a well-trained tongue could be! He was thoroughly thrilled and flushed all over.
Now she turned him around, moving his body in such a way that his feet were touching the carpet as he lay across the bed. Already she was kneeling before him. She slung his legs over her shoulders and, taking his prick in one hand, continued her tongue-play over his hairy balls. She inhaled the odor of his body, pressed her own thighs together and moved her bottom around. She was terribly excited herself and put everything she had into the act. At last she moved up a bit and embraced his stiff shaft again with her lips. Her lips closed more firmly than before around his magnificent tool and she sucked it into her mouth until it touched her throat. God, how she loved that! Up and down, up and down went her sucking mouth and he worked softly against her, moving his bottom slightly. Changing the steady movements into circling and screwing movements, she groaned and purred and breathed convulsively.
That went on for a long time, until he could stand it no longer. He bent forward and, almost doubled-up, tried to grab her and get her into the bed. He wanted to fuck her now but she would not let him. She held his prick tightly with one hand, his balls with the other, while her mouth was glued to that precious instrument. His whole body shook.
“I can’t stand it any longer!” he cried.
She released him for a moment. “Then give it to me!” she said. “I want to drink you! Give it to me!” And she was at it again.
He let himself fall back again and began fucking her mouth with strong moves. When he came and shot a mighty gusher, she released him at once. He wanted her to keep up the pressure on his spouting organ. But she had slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her. He shot a few drops into the air, but he was not wholly satisfied.
Presently she came back, cleaned him with a wet towel and slipped into bed with him, covering them both with the black silken sheet. She smiled and mocked him.
“You vixen! But you are an artist.” He stretched himself and drew her very close. “How did you learn it or is it a natural talent with you?”
“I might as well tell you the whole story, especially as I want you to help me get those records out of the files. Probably it is an old story for you, but here it is.” She nestled close and took his prick, now soft and lifeless, caressingly in her hand.
“I was not even nineteen when I came to the big city. Of course, I was not a virgin. I had some boyfriends in my hick town and here in the city, also, when I worked at odd jobs as a salesgirl, model and so on. But I never took any money from my boyfriends. Presents, on the other hand, are always welcome, you know. As it happened, one day I found myself without a job and with very small funds. I had to look for a cheap room. The living quarters this beast never mind her name offered me were lovely and the price was only a couple of bucks. She explained that she was not really renting the room to me but liked to have the company of young girls, a line for which I fell. She was not a madame, but a procurer. I was much too dumb to find that out quick enough. Anyway, she sent me on some jobs to make ‘easy money’ and here and there I went. Why deny it? Mostly I didn’t follow her orders. I mean, from her standpoint, I was utterly unreliable. I can see that now. She and nobody else had me picked up by some dicks, with no evidence against me whatsoever, and they railroaded me by having me plead guilty. The six months in the reformatory were not as bad as everyone supposes, but when I was released my troubles began. No money, no friends, no job…but one of the girls in the big house had given me the address of a madame, the best one in the business, they said, and to her I went, determined that she should take me in.
“I can still picture myself standing in her elegant drawing room, begging her to give me a chance. She did not want to have anything to do with a girl who had a record. She demanded highest ability, clever talk and frank immorality from her girls. She made me strip and felt me over and toyed around with me so that I really blushed. No woman had ever done such things to me. I had at that time very fine breasts they are not so bad now, but then I must have been a morsel and my little pussy was and is quite small. Other girls are much larger down there. Apparently she liked me. She began to praise her clientele, raved about the money I would make, drew fantastic pictures of magnificent clothes, and so on. But she stated that her customers were rich men, perverted and spoiled, and that a girl had to take it on the chin while working for her. I was still very dumb. She knew it and told me so, but she said I had talent and that she would put me through the mill.
“She showed me to one of her marvelously furnished rooms and let me wait there. She kept two or three steady girls in the house the others were on call. A couple of hours later she came back with Carlos, her ‘tough guy,’ a kind of pimp, a swarthy, uncouth and lousy Italian fellow with one feature that was extraordinary: He could raise a hard-on and keep it for many hours. The girls said he was taking some herbs or a medicine that got him hot but hindered him from coming. Anyway, the Madame, who ordered him around as if he were a big animal, told him to put me through the mill. She sat down in an easy chair and smoked a cigarette and instructed me what to do. When I saw this huge, brown-skinned fellow sprawled on the bed, I was bewildered and did not know how to handle it.
“Anyway, when Carlos started to fuck me gee! It was the toughest party I’d ever had. He was a husky, strong fellow and he pushed and pushed and forced me to answer his thrusts. Of course, I came and came and was finally all exhausted. So he took his big tool out of me and I had to kneel over him and suck it. Madame demanded that I make him come and, unaware that he couldn’t, I worked like a fool. When my lips and my tongue were sore, I had to sit straddle-legged over him and ride him and then lick him again until I caved in. He sure put me through the mill. Madame finally ended the session and told me that I would do, but that I should understand that I was entirely under her supervision and that was our agreement. I was much too exhausted to say anything but yes and I did not regret it in the long run.”
“There is lots of faking in those houses, isn’t there?” Sarnelli asked rhetorically.
Somehow that was against Paula’s pride. “Not where I was. Oh no, sir. That was just the difference between my madame and the other bastards. She was in a way very straight. She never put anything over on anybody. She did not allow the girls to get extra money out of the men. She paid us our share. She paid the bulls what was coming to them. And we had to come across and do the right thing by the men. That’s why she stayed so long unmolested in business.
“You see, we had good instructions from our madame. She taught us how to play around with them, especially to massage the prick and the balls with cleverness, so that the customer was half ready before the real act started. That makes it easier, of course. Most men wanted to be Frenched. Now, when a guy is half ready when you take his tool between your lips, it won’t exhaust you.”
“And how did this job end for you?”
“Oh, the madame was tipped off to lay low, so she closed up, went to Florida for her health, and we poor chickens were on our own hook. Mind you, I had saved up more than a thousand dollars, and the other girls were not worse off. I moved to a good hotel and very soon met my present boyfriend. I’m with him already over two years and I’m contented. He is a good man. Of course, I passed as a good girl when I met him, told him a cock-and-bull story, and he still believes it. I think that he’ll marry me some day and that’s why I’m willing to do anything to have those records destroyed. Will you help me?”
Sarnelli said he would.
She was aware that his prick was blown up again to fine dimensions and she calculated that she was soon going to get what she was after. When his tool was safely placed in her longing cunt and she had him well encircled with her arms and legs, she whispered in his ear:
“Keep still, sweetheart. Keep very still only for a moment.”
When he complied, she began her party for herself. She twisted and turned under him, pressed and rubbed her love-nest with strong movements against the hair around his shaft, circled and heaved and threw herself up and down so that he had difficulty keeping his balance. She dug her heels into the firm flesh of his behind, her fingers into his shoulders, and finally she came. But she was not selfish. She stretched her legs under him, closed them firmly and made him spread his apart a bit. Her fingers were busy as she answered his fucking movements with rhythmic thrusts. When she felt him coming, she tightened up her pussy as much as possible around his burning love-shaft. They lay quite a while motionless. Then she said:
“You see now why I did not suck you out entirely before. I wanted something for myself and I have it now, don’t I?” And with that, she was out of the bed.
It was a tired but satisfied detective who left a respectable young lady after a two-hour visit. Satisfied, also, that she was not connected in any way with the matter under investigation, he had some reflections in his mind about that girl. She certainly was on the borderline. If given a chance, she’d become the respectable wife of a middle-class fellow and probably have kids and a home of her own. But if that man would not take her in for good, she’d be on the bum again pretty soon afterward. Then they would term her a “fallen woman.” Life was funny.
This month’s Book Bonus is a literary hoax, but not a well kept one, as it is excerpted from a book subtitled “What Frank Harris Did Not Say.” When the text first appeared in Paris, in 1954, as the last book in Maurice Girodias’ Atlantic Library a subsidiary at the already infamous Olympia Press the title page read simply “Frank Harris. My Life and Loves. Fifth Volume. ” The book sold so well it was reprinted four times despite being banned by the French courts. The reason for its popularity was the scandalous reputation of its purported author and his oeuvre.
One has to understand Frank Harris and his infamous autobiography My Life and Loves to appreciate the complexity and irony of the delightful deception perpetrated by Girodias.
Frank Harris 1855-1931 was a bombastic egotist, but the best editor England had seen in centuries. He was popular and fearless, with influential journals behind him as protection from his enemies. He had a reputation as a connoisseur, lover of many beautiful women, and intimate of the high and mighty. He was also a scoundrel, rascal and liar. The four self-published volumes of his autobiography, appearing from 1922 to 1927, contained sexually explicit chapters, as well as gossip that, at best, could be called indiscreet. My Life and Loves became the most notorious memoir of the century.
Harris died in 1931, but his fame spread as his autobiography became one of the perennial best-sellers of Obelisk Press of Paris, run by Jack Kahane, whose son, Maurice Girodias, took over at his father’s death. Then, bankrupted after World War II, Girodias lost the press and the Harris title to the publishing giant Hachette. Girodias realized a way to get even with Hachette and make some money, or at least cost his rival the revenue from the first four volumes of the Harris memoirs.
Girodias remembered that plans for a fifth volume of My Life and Loves were mentioned in the original contract with his father. The volume was never published due to Harris’ death. Seeking out the lawyer for the Harris estate, Girodias offered one million francs which he did not have for the manuscript of the last volume, sight unseen. What he received upon payment which he raised in two weeks was a slim envelope of basically worthless typed sheets, obviously drafts of material Harris had anticipated eventually incorporating into his autobiography. Not the least dismayed, Girodias ran the parcel to one of his regular authors, the poet and novelist Alex Trocchi. Over the next ten days they wrote a totally salacious book that they felt faithfully mimicked Harris. The two knew they had a best seller on their hands. They capitalized on the Harris reputation, and produced a volume all previous readers of My Life and Loves would surely want to buy.
“Frank Harris. My Life and Loves. Fifth Volume.” was sprung on an unsuspecting world in June 1954. The public bought this bogus work both literally and figuratively. It should be noted that twenty percent of the text was material by Harris, so the book was not entirely a fraud.
When it was banned by the French Courts at the end of 1956, the prohibition of My Life and Loves included the four volumes controlled by Hachette. Girodias’ delight was complete. Nearly ten years later, newly established in the United States, Girodias reissued this “tumultuous apocryphal fifth volume of My Life and Loves, as embellished by Alexander Trocchi, with an apologetic preface by Maurice Girodias.” The preface confessed the entire tale. C.J. Scheiner, M.D.
My first visit to Japan, nearly half a century ago now, was one of intense enjoyment. I was interested almost at once as I have never been interested anywhere else. Almost immediately I grasped the main fact that the people were freer of morality than even the French. I meant to stay a month and stayed nearly six: I went all the way up the inland sea and began, I think, to understand that great people in most of its idiosyncrasies.
The first thing that struck me wherever I went in Japan was the astonishing politeness and courtesy of the people. To enter either a hotel or an inn was a real pleasure everyone seemed glad to see you and the little waitresses were smiling with pleasure and delighted to do whatever they could for you. Japan has been called the land of flowers. It is also the land of the most tender and passionate of women. My first experience, which brought home to me the truth of my last remark, took place only one day after I arrived and it was with one of the pretty waitresses who, from the moment I entered the hotel, did their utmost to make my stay a pleasant one.
It was the waitress who served at my own table in the dining room who appeared on the morning after my arrival at my bedside with the loaded breakfast tray. I had retired late, having talked far into the night wlth a friend, and I had left Instructions with the desk clerk for my breakfast to be served In my room at ten o’clock.
I woke up with the curtains being drawn back. The warm sunlight fell softly across my bed and a moment later, returned to consciousness, I was aware of the pleasantly featured young waitress who, having opened the curtains, moved across to me with the demeanor so charming that I broke out in English: “Your country is truly the land of flowers!”
She blushed prettily and set the tray in front of me.
“You understand English then?” I exclaimed delightedly the day before at table she had not uttered a word.
“Yes sir,” she said politely. “Since we have so many English and American guests at the hotel, our manager insists that all the waitresses should speak a little English.”
I nodded delightedly. The Japanese were indeed a wonderful people!
“How old are you?” I asked.
“I am nearly nineteen!” she exclaimed. “You are very pretty,” I said with a smile, hoping to draw her out. “I’m sure all the young men must be in love with you!”
“Indeed no, sir!” she laughed, bowing her pretty head. Never once did she indicate that she desired to leave the room, not by gesture nor by expression. She was the essence of politeness. Of course my interest was aroused at once. 1 had had a good night’s sleep and my first vision upon waking up was of this pretty girl with the sun shining on her pretty, neatly starched uniform.
“Tell me.” I said provokingly, “is love forbidden in your country that a beautiful girl like you has not a hundred admirers?”
She laughed and then shook her head engagingly.
“Perhaps it’s that you have no desire for love,” I went on. “Perhaps the young men are afraid that you will reproach them!”
Still she would not speak, but her smile remained and a soft light flickered in her delicate almond-shaped eyes.
“Come,” I said, “tell me the truth about yourself! Do you never long to have the experience of being loved? Has no man ever caressed you? Have you never given yourself completely to a man’s embraces?”
“Oh sir,” she said, “why should you be interested in my poor life? I am a woman. That is all. There is no secret!”
“What is there secret in a woman’s desire?”
“And in her body?”
“It is a body, like any other. If there is any mystery it is in a woman’s soul.”
“Will you prove it to me?”
“How?” Her dark eyes flickered softly and there was a smile on her delicate, poppy-red lips.
“By showing it to me of course!” I said with a smile.
“Oh sir,” she said gaily, “you can see women any day in our country, in the public baths, and in the country districts, even on the streets!”
“That is all very well,” I said, “but it is your body I want to see. Will you show it to me?”
She hesitated. I laughed. “You see? And now I shall not believe a word you have said!”
Imagine my surprise when, without a word, she began to undress before me! A moment later she was standing, young, sinuous and radiant, naked as the day she was born. Her body was perfect, the breasts small and round with light brown nipples no bigger than raisins, her thighs slim and full at the same time, and her buttocks firm and poised tremulously beneath her narrow waist.
I did not need to ask her to turn this way and that so that I might examine her more particularly: she appeared to realize intuitively that I wished to have a glimpse at her from all angles. Thus she posed for me, first facing me and then with her back toward me, and then suddenly she clasped her hands in front of me and laughed.
Without hesitation, I slipped from the bed and crossed the floor toward her. I too was naked, having thrown off my nightgown as I rose from the bed. She made no effort to flee away from me, but waited until I had traversed the distance between us and had placed my hands on her slim shoulders. “How perfectly lovely you are!” I exclaimed.
She laughed and swayed forward, touching her firm little breasts against my chest tantalizingly. I looked down between them and saw the neat, small, triangular shape of her mound with its smooth plumage of blue-black hair which threaded its way delicately upwards toward her navel. I encircled her with my arms and crushed her body close. She lay against me without resisting, one of her knees raised slightly against my thigh. I was utterly delighted with her. Was it na vet that caused her to allow a stranger to clasp her close in this way?
I think that would be the wrong word. No, it was rather the true innocence of the pagan who is happily incapable of comprehending our Western notion of modesty. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to her to satisfy my curiosity. She rejoiced in the affirmation of her young sex, in the possibility of the carnal delight which, untroubled by the cataracts of morality, was a thing to be taken and held firmly while her youth was still with her.
Very gently, I reached round under her buttocks with one arm and raised her from the floor. She seemed to have no density at all. I carried her across to the bed without effort and laid her at full length on the warm sheets. She smiled up at me, still passive except for the falling sideways of one thigh which revealed between the smooth surfaces the delicate pink tract of her sex. Without haste, I leaned over her and took her left nipple between my lips. I sucked on it gently and felt her breast grow hard under my mouth. Her eyes flickered beneath their long, smooth lashes, and then, like delicate curtains, were closed. At the same time, she raised her knees and allowed them to fall open like loose scissors. This had the effect of distending her sex in such a way that the hair near its summit parted to reveal the little bud of her clitoris. I moved my fingers there gently to stimulate the flow of her love juice and at the first contact of my fingers her pretty mouth fell open to allow herself to be submerged in her passion. Soon I felt her body arch upwards in its effort to give itself completely and then her delicate little hands sought my head and guided it skillfully between her thighs so that my mouth came to rest on the smooth pad of hair which parted like grass under gentle strokes of my tongue. The whole affair had been so casual, without hurry, without breathlessness, that I had perhaps more time to examine her sex than I had hitherto had in any previous experience of that kind. I was able to examine the way in which each individual hair was embedded in the pulpy flesh of her mound, the way in which they had a tendency to curl toward the tips, doubtless owing to the fact that she had habitually worn a kind of loincloth which not only compressed the hairs but caused a delicate and not at all pungent sweat to gather there. Her sex was exceedingly small, much smaller than any of the Chinese women with whom I had had sexual experiences during the past few months. Indeed, I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that it was the smallest, and perhaps the prettiest, sex I had ever seen. Up till that moment, of course. I don’t wish to give the impression this girl was in any way outstanding amongst her fellow countrymen. On the contrary, if I began by saying that the Japanese are the most passionate and tender of women, I might add now that their loins and their sexes are in general far more dainty than those of any other race.
Soon I allowed my tongue to move in between the sloping hair-trimmed surfaces. Her love juice was not at all unpleasant to taste and reminded me more than anything else of the white of an egg, but with a heavier, human quality about it, doubtless again because of the hothouse atmosphere which was the normal condition of her private parts. I stroked slowly, worrying the little stamen of her clitoris with my upper lip at the same time as I penetrated more deeply with my tongue. By this time her hands had come underneath her buttocks and she raised herself to the length of her forearms and supported herself on twin pedestals, her legs wide and astride like the shafts of a cart. How soft and satinlike were her thighs against my cheeks! When she allowed her buttocks to sink downwards, she groaned, bucked slightly, and then, taking me by the hair of my head, drew me upwards until my sex broke softly into hers and slid, warmly coated by the love juice, inward deeply to the hilt. At once I felt my sex and my short hairs inundated by the delicate froth of her loins. I sighed and undulated my hips gently in the motions of love.
“You darling!” I cried. “You are making me all wet!”
She answered me with a pretty smile, and then, her face growing serious, she drew my mouth down against her own. Her little tongue darted into my mouth and traced delicate filigrees behind my teeth. Our teeth clicked and we burst out laughing. I seized her thick hair which had been cut in the usual way in which Japanese women style it, that is to say, it is cut short of shoulder length and falls like a bell about the pronounced Oriental cheeks, and I pinned her laughing head to the bed.
“How pretty you are!” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “What a marvelous time we are going to have together while I am here!”
“Be more brutal,” she said softly, her rich voice tinged with insinuation. “I want you to try to kill me by loving!”
In immediate response to her desire I thrust violently into her with strong strokes. Her belly grew wet with perspiration and her pretty mouth, the teeth bared, drove itself into my neck. I rose and fell on her, relishing the soft smacking sound which the thick, hollow flesh of our bellies created between them. She was mad with lust. She forgot her English words and a stream of Japanese words and exclamations burst from her lips against my neck and shoulders, her voice husky and lilting in a typically Oriental way. What enjoyment I derived from that slim body with its blue-black hair at sex and armpits!
As we rose to our first climax, exactly simultaneously, we both cried out in our native tongues and settled, our perspiration mingling and my seed carried upwards in the gentle alluvial flow which love caused to rise in her. Only then, only at that tremendous moment, did I remember that I had not asked her whether she had taken precautions against conception. I did so at once. She shook her head laughingly. But I was serious. I had no desire that the sweet child should become pregnant by me.
Thus, in spite of her expostulations, I withdrew, opened my suitcase which I had not yet had time to unpack and brought out my syringe. I explained how she should use it and would have nothing to do with her until she followed my instructions to the letter. Then, her small face puckered up in mock anger, she came into my arms again. Suddenly she emitted a long, tearful wail and dropped to her knees. One of her hands grasped my member and thrust it into her mouth. Gazing downwards at the pretty head which sought to bury itself at my groin, I was amazed to see that my own sex was once again rigid.
No sooner did the realization come over me like a minute bristle at all my pores than I allowed myself to topple sideways on to the carpet on which, for the space of five minutes, we wrestled and fought uncontrollably until, once again, her little belly rising upwards to expose her naked sex, I drove mine into her with all my might. She breathed deeply between her sobs and our passion caused our flesh to shudder more deeply than I can remember. By this time I had pinioned her hands to the floor on either side so that she lay as though crucified below me. I rose and fell against her, our bellies smacking together in a welter of sweat until, just as the new inundation coursed through the sensitive tissue of my flanks, I felt her body grow weak, accepting the ichor of my passion. Her lovely young face, tearful and ecstatic at the same time, pleaded with me to stop.
“Oh,” she cried. “Stop now…I can’t bear any more…I shall die of pleasure! Please…”
Her eyes were closed and her tremulous young bosom rose and fell out of all control. Her limbs were slack and spread-eagled on the floor. All possibility of effort had deserted her!
Gently, more tenderly than ever, I rose from her, lifted her lovely young torso in my arms and carried her to the bed. She was in no condition to take the necessary precautions herself and so I did the work with the syringe, for I would not for the world have brought the pain of an unwanted pregnancy to a young female who had given me so much pleasure. Ten minutes later she opened her eyes. The coffee which she had brought was only lukewarm but it seemed to revive her and she drank it gratefully from the cup which I held to her lips.
“You gave me so much love!” she said when she had drunk. “Really, I thought my body would burst with pleasure.”
I kissed her gently and told her to rest for the remainder of the day. I would explain to the manager, I told her. She should have no fear of taking the rest she so well deserved and so badly needed. I kissed her, drew the bedclothes upwards over her lovely little shoulders and went about my own toilet with the feeling that I had found at last the country in which love, in all its varied beauty, is accepted gratefully without shame as the most important gift in a good life.
I was invited by my friend Captain B. to a festive evening. He had brought together a special corps of geishas, and they were attended by mousm es who came and sat with us while their more exalted sisters danced. The little mousm e who came to me was the prettiest of the whole lot and I suppose I showed her that I admired her. At any rate, the dance was not half over when her hand began to stray and from light touches, the brushing of her fingers against my thigh, she soon went on to bolder demonstrations of desire. At length I said to her “later,” one of the few Japanese words I knew she pouted and then laughed with enjoyment. I allowed my hand to move softly over the silk of her tunic. When the geishas finished their dance and came back to sit with us, I said to my host, “Is it possible for me to keep the little mousm e?”
“Sure,” he replied, and with a word or two made my resolve known. Never did I see such gratitude in any human face as the little mousm e showed me there. I was sure that the compliment paid to her in preferring her to the more important geishas would be returned in full. I was not mistaken. As soon as we were alone together in the bedroom later that night, she evinced a mixture of affection and passion such as it has seldom been my good fortune to experience.
I made the mistake at thinking that after the first night it was all over. When Captain B. and I met in the morning, I told him all my feelings and gave him a ten pound note to convey my satisfaction to my little friend. To my wonder and his, the money was refused! Captain B. declared that it was the first time in all his twenty years acquaintance with Japan that such a thing had happened.
It was my little mousm e who taught me all I know of Japan and a good deal of female nature to boot. The moment we spoke of sex things her revelations became extraordinary. She told me never to go with anyone in the Yoshiwara: if I wanted anyone she would soon find out if they were healthy or not and let me know.
When I think of the devotion of that mousm e I am always astonished. She loved me, yet never showed any jealously on one of the first occasions she brought a pretty geisha to me saying: “She is famous but I don’t think you’ll care for her.” Then she got her to lie down and exposed her sex: “You see,” she said, parting her lips, “she’s not very small and she takes a long time to excite.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because I tried before bothering you with her but she wanted to come, thinking, I suppose, her eyes would win you.” And the girl’s eyes were indeed very pretty. Barring exact detail, I think I have said enough to show the extent of my debt to my little mousm e. It remains only for me to describe one heavenly night which I spent in her company.
To be precise, there was another girl present, another mousm e whom she had selected carefully for our night of love. “Look!” she said when she produced this friend, “she is really worth love! Her sex is smaller than mine and with one touch it is all aflame!”
As I stood gazing at these two adorable creatures, each one nude, each perfect in her own way, I felt a tremendous desire stir in my loins. “And don’t think I’m going to leave you alone with her!” my mousm e laughed merrily. “Who knows? Both of us together may be able to keep you here in Kyoto! For I know you love me, Frank, and if what you say about your Western women is true I don’t understand why you wish to return to them. And now, use us dear! Just as you please!”
For a moment I was too dumbfounded to move! These two superb creatures with pale skin, their neat hips, their perfect breasts, and their almost identical heads, set high on smooth, proud necks and capped by neat bells of blue-black hair I had never before been offered so much and so delightfully! As I say, I was for a moment incapable of the slightest movement. But at last I said: “Stand where you are, close together, facing me!”
They laughed prettily and did as they were bid. Quickly, I removed my own clothes so that I stood naked before them. My eyes were hypnotized by the twin sexes, by the neat chevrons of silky, dark hairs which clung close to their lower bellies and disappeared in a neat point at the junction of their thighs, and even more perhaps by the beautiful ivory smoothness of the bellies themselves, indented neatly at their centers by the prettiest of navels. I moved over to them and, falling on my knees in front of them, encircled the smooth buttocks of each with either arm. The choice was before me two pretty sexes, delicately scented in a manner which only Japanese women know, at the level of my doting lips.
“Taste us in turn!” my own little mousm e laughed delightedly. “Her first she is the guest!”
With my forehead against the warm belly at the other little mousm e, I allowed my lips to mingle with her silky hairs. parting them with my tongue to find her sweet-smelling little clitoris.
Both girls were laughing prettily and talking in Japanese.
“What are you saying?” I said, faintly annoyed with their laughter.
“Only that you will have to dig deep to find the gold!” exclaimed my own little friend in her sweet voice.
At that very moment my tongue, moving tentatively between the delicately fringed lips of the girl’s sex, tasted an indescribable sweetness. I allowed my tongue to sink between the lips into the soft mass. Imagine my astonishment when a perfectly delightful ichor spread about my taste buds! The nearest I can come to the description of it is to say that it had the consistency of honey and tasted of violet and rose leaves. At the same time I was conscious of the girl’s quiver under my caress.
“You darlings!” I cried, “what have you done to yourselves?”
“An old love secret,” my little mousm e explained, and then she added, “why don’t you take us both over to the divan where we can be comfortable and relax. If my guess is correct you will want to explore us both in this way for a long time!”
How right she was! The divan was a broad one. I lay between them with my feet toward their heads, with my sex, rampant now with the urgency of the situation, on a level with their mouths. I tasted first one and then the other, exploring, suckling, savoring, while they, darling lovers that they were, moved about my loins with their soft mouths, teasing my body into ecstasy. Soon both sexes became sticky and wet under my mouth, four lovely thighs rose upwards to allow deeper and more intimate penetrations, and the coral lips of the young and small sexes opened like wet and loving mouths, much as flowers might, to exude the sweetest of ichors. If I had to say what liquid came nearest in my imagination to the mythical ambrosia, I would say that the liquid distilled in those warm, ruby sheaths, mingling with the potion they had secreted there to lure me on, was undoubtedly the one. My lips were afire with lust to taste more deeply, more urgently, spreading the fairy love juice amongst the shining hairs and onto the soft, delicately female-scented thighs. How lovely those thighs were, loose and lascivious, falling, moving like the slow tentacles of an underwater plant. Simultaneously, my own loins were besieged by the gentlest aerial attack of butterflies. I was lying on my side, first on one side and then on the other, to taste of two equally exotic honeycombs, with one maiden taking my member between her wet and cushioned lips and then the other.
Indeed, I quite forgot which was which, so I had no opportunity of showing preference!
That was the beginning. As my tonguing became more purposeful, my upper lip working the clitoris as my tongue delved deep among the ambrosia, each in her turn rose to a frantic climax, the torso quivering in rapture, the twin sighs, of the one who doted moaning with husky softness to incite, and the one who experienced the orgasm crying out fitfully as the seed rose in her womb, and I, my hands close at her bare buttocks, drawing the warm, sweet mass as though to suffocate about my face.
In this way, over a period of an hour, I raised them each three times to the highest pitch of experience, and found, much to my dismay, I myself had discharged twice under their twin caress, my seed swallowed lovingly by the girls in turn that they were only eager for more, only eager to make a perpetual night of this almost religious adoration!
My Secret Life is the longest, frankest, most detailed sexual biography ever published. The first edition was issued in eleven thick volumes, totaling over four thousand pages. Prefaces by the author indicate that, for his own amusement, the book was started as a diary when he was about twenty-five. It has since become the most written-about work of erotic prose ever. No study of erotica or Victorian sexuality is complete without mention of this remarkable opus.
My Secret Life is a firsthand, near-photographic portrait of a Victorian erotomaniac who has sex with some twelve hundred women during his lifetime nearly all of whom are paid for their services . Details of dress, manner and social custom, as well as the sexual diversions available to the Victorians, fall under the scrutiny of the anonymous author. It remains a treasure trove of sexual revelation. In this, the second of two excerpts, we are treated to a earthy glimpse of an “English gentleman’s” life and thoughts. C.J. Scheiner, M.D.
Since I had finished with Camille, her sister Louise and the French artistes-in-lechery whom she introduced to me when I was twenty-one years old, I do not recollect having gone with a French woman excepting when abroad. My tastes ran on my own countrywomen. Now in a year of national importance, and one in which strangers came from all parts of the world to London, I was to have a French woman again.
Was it for the sake of change only, or because they were more willing, salacious, enterprising and artistic in Paphian exercises? I cannot say.
At quite the beginning of the month of June, about four o’clock in the afternoon, I saw a woman walking slowly along Pall-Mall dressed in the nicest and neatest way. I could scarcely make up my mind whether she was gay or not, but at length saw the quiet invitation in her eye, and slightly nodding reply, followed her to a house. She was a French woman named Camille.
I named my fee, it was accepted, and in a quiet, even ladylike way she began undressing. With a neatness unusual in gay women, one by one each garment was folded up and placed on a chair, pins stuck in a pin-cushion, et cetera, with the greatest composure, and almost without speaking.
I liked her even for that, and felt she would suit my taste. As each part of her flesh came into view, I saw that her form was lovely. When in her chemise I began undressing, she sitting looking at me. When in my shirt I began those exquisite preliminaries with this well-made, pretty woman, feeling her all over and kissing her, but my pego was impatient, and I could not go on at this long. Smiling, she laid hold of my prick. “Shall we make love?” This was in the bedroom.
“Here, or in the salon?”
“I don’t like a sofa.”
“Mais ici,”said she, pushing the door open wide, and pointing to a piece of furniture which I had not noticed, though noticeable enough. In the room was a sort of settee or divan as long and nearly as wide as a good-sized bed so wide that two people could lie on it side by side. It had neither head nor feet, but presented one level surface, covered with a red silky material, and a valance hanging down the sides. At one end were two pillows, also red, and made flat like two bed-pillows.
“There, on that,” said I at once.
I never saw any divan or piece of furniture like it in my life since, neither in brothel, nor in private house, here or on the Continent, excepting once when quite in the extreme east of Europe.
It was a blazing hot day. “Shall I take off my chemise?”
“Yes.” Off she took it, folded it up, and took it into the bedroom.
“Take off your shirt.” Off I drew it, and we both stood naked. She laid hold of my stiff prick, gave it a gentle shake, laughed, fetched two towels, spread one on the divan for her bum, laid the other on a pillow for me, went back to the bedroom, poured out water in the basin, then laid herself down naked on the divan with her bum on the towel. I kissed her belly and thighs and she opened them wide for me to see her notch, without my having asked her to do so. To pull it open, have a moment’s glance at the red, kiss and feel her rapidly over, mount her, fuck and spend, was only an affair of two or three minutes, so strongly had she stirred my lust for her.
I laid long up her, raising myself on my elbow to talk with her whilst my prick was still in her sheath. At length it slipped out. Gently she put her hand down and caught it, taking off the excess of moisture. Delicately she raised the towel and put her hand on her cunt, and saying with a smile, “Mon Dieu, il y en a assez,” went to the bedroom, I following her.
She wiped her cunt with the towel, half squatting to do so, then rose up quickly saying, “Shall I wash you?” I had begun but the offer pleased me. I have no recollection as I write this of any gay woman having made such an offer since the first French Camille and one or two of her set, excepting yellow-haired Kitty, who liked doing that to me.
“Yes, wash it.”
“Hold the basin then.” Taking it up she placed it under me so that my testicles hung into it whilst I held it. She washed me.
“Inglis sop” she said, laughing, the first English words I heard her speak. My prick washed, she performed a similar operation on herself. All was done so nicely, cleanly and delicately that I have never seen it excelled by any woman.
“Causons-nous?” said she, leading the way to the divan. Then both laying down naked, we gossiped. She was from Arles, in France, eighteen years of age, had been in London a fortnight, had been tailed six months and lived with her father most of that time. A month ago she had been persuaded to go to Lyons by an old woman who there sold her pleasures and kept her money. Another old one snapped her up there and brought her to London, where a young French woman more experienced than Camille induced her to work on her own account. That was told me laying naked with her on the divan.
She was alone in London and still exercising her occupation the other day, thirty-one years after I first had her. I have known her, and had her occasionally, during all that time, though sometimes two or three years have elapsed between my visits to her. She has been in poor circumstances for years past, and oftentimes I have gone out of my way purposely to meet her, and give her a bit of gold, out of regard for her.
We lay during her narration which was soon told naked. Hot as it was I felt a slight coolness, and drawing myself closer up to her, “It’s cool,” I said.
Without reply, she put one hand over me to help my embrace of her, with the other handled gently my prick, the next instant kissed me, and I felt her tongue peeping out of her pretty lips, seeking my tongue. My fingers naturally had been playing gently about her cunt all the time of our talk, and her hand rubbing gently over my naked flesh. So for a minute in silence our tongues played with each other and then without a word and with one consent, like one body we moved together gently, she onto her back, I onto her belly, my prick went up her, and with slow, probing thrusts, with now and then a nestle and a pause, till the rapid clip-clip of her cunt drove me into more rapid action, to the rapid in and out and the final short thrusts and wriggle against her womb, till my prick with strong pulsations sent my sperm up her again.
“Ah! Ch ri, mon Dieu, ah,” she sighed as she had spent with me. “You fuck divinely,” said she, but in chaste words, afterwards.
A wash as before, and then with chemise and shirt on, we talked about France, London, beer, wine and other topics. “Let me look at your cunt.” I had scarcely looked at it.
Without reply she fell back, opened her thighs, and then I saw all, all, and so for two hours we went on, till it was time for me to dine, and with a parting fuck which we both enjoyed, we parted. I added another piece of gold to what I had already put on the mantel piece before she began to undress. A custom of mine then, and always followed since, is putting down my fee it prevents mistakes and quarrels. When paid, if a woman will not let me have her, be it so, she has some reason, perhaps a good one for me. If she be a cheat, and only uses the money to extort more, be it so I know my woman, and have done with her henceforth.
Camille was a woman of perfect height, about five foot seven, and beautifully formed, had full, hard, exquisite breasts, and lovely legs and haunches, though not too fat or heavy. The hair on her cunt, soft and of a very dark chestnut color, was not then large in quantity, but corresponded with her years. Her cunt was small, with small inner lips, and a pretty, nubbly clitoris like a little button. The split of her cunt lay between the thighs with scarcely any swell of outer lips, but had a good mons, and was altogether one of the prettiest cunts I have ever seen. I am now beginning, after having seen many hundreds of them, to appreciate beauty in cunts, to be conscious that there is a special, a superior beauty in the cunts of some women as compared with others, just as there is in other parts of their body. She had pretty hands and feet.
Her skin had the slightly brown gypsy tint found in many women in the south of Europe. I never saw a woman in whom the color was so uniform as in her. From her face to her ankles it was the same unvarying tint without a mottle, even in any cranny. It had also the most exquisite smoothness, but it neither felt like ivory, satin or velvet it seemed a compound of them all. I have scarcely felt the same in any other woman yet.
That smoothness attracted me at first I expect, but it was only after I had had her several times that I began to appreciate it, and to compare it with the skin of other women. She had with that a great delicacy of touch with her hands.
Her face was scarcely equal to her form. The nose was more than retrouss , it bordered on the snub. She had small, dark, softly twinkling eyes and dark hair the mouth was ordinary, but with a set of very small and beautifully white, regular teeth. The general effect of her face was piquant rather than beautiful, but it pleased me. Her voice was small and soft, an excellent thing in a woman.
Such was the woman I have known for thirty-one years, but of whom there is scarcely anything to be told. No intrigue, nothing exciting is connected with her and myself. I cannot tell all the incidents of our acquaintance right off as I do those of many of my women who appeared, pleased me and disappeared, but she will be noticed from time to time as I had her, or sought her help in different erotic whims and fancies which took hold of me at various periods. I write this now finding that her name appears in my manuscript a long way further on. She was moreover a most intelligent creature, clean, sober and economical, and saving with a good purpose and object, to end, alas, for her in failure.
I never had a more voluptuous woman. Naked on that divan or on the bed when the weather was warm, I had her constantly during that summer. I know nothing more exciting than the tranquil, slow, measured way in which she laid down, exposing her charms every attitude being natural yet exciting by its beauty and delicate salacity. She always seemed to me to be what I had heard of Orientals in copulation. She had the slowest yet most stifling embrace. There was no violent energy, no heaving up of rump as if a pin had just run into her, nor violent sighs, nor loud exclamations, but she clung to you, and sucked your mouth in a way I scarcely ever have found in English women, or in French ones but the Austrians and Hungarians in the use of tongue with tongue and lips with lips are unrivaled in their voluptuousness.
Beyond a voluptuous grace natural to her, she had not at first the facile ways of a French courtesan, they came later on. I saw the change, and from that and other indications feel sure she had not been in gay life long before I had her. I could tell more of her history, but this is a narrative of my life, not of hers.
She soon got a good clientele, picked up English rapidly, dressed richly, but never showily, and began to save money. She made affectionate advances to me which I did not accept. After a time she used to pout at what I gave her, and got greedy. So one day I said “Ma ch re, here is more, but adieu. I don’t like you to be dissatisfied, but cannot afford to come to see you.” She slapped the gold heavily down on the table.
“Ah! Mon Dieu, don’t say so, come, come, I am sorry. You shall never pay me. Come when you like. I did not want you to pay me but you would. Come, do come, that lovely prick do me again before you go. Don’t go.” And she never pouted about my compliment, till many years afterwards.
I suppose that having this charming fresh French woman made me wish for another for despite my satisfaction and liking for her, I made acquaintance with another French woman, as unlike Camille as possible. Her name was Gabrielle, a bold-looking woman with big eyes and a handsome face, very tall and well-made, but with not too much flesh on her bones, with a large, full-lipped, loud-looking cunt in a bush of hair as black as charcoal. I never told Camille about her, and think it was the great contrast between the two which made me have her. That woman also seemed later on to have taken some sort of fancy to me.
She had all the ready lechery of a well-practiced French harlot, I saw it from the way she opened her thighs and laid down to receive my embraces. About the third visit she brought water and made me wash my prick, on which the exudation of healthy lust was showing whitish, before she let me poke her.
I liked her cleanliness, but to my astonishment, no sooner were we on the bed than she reversed herself, laying side by side with me, and began sucking my prick. I had no taste for that pleasure, nor since a woman in the rooms of Camille the first did it to me had my penis been so treated that I recollect, though I had made ladies take it into their mouths for a second. I objected.
“Mais si, mais si,” and she went on. My head was near her knee, one leg she lifted up, showing her thighs, which opened and showed her big-lipped cunt in its thicket of black hair.
She played with my prick thus till experience told her she could do it no longer with safety, then ceasing her suction and changing her position, I fucked her in the old-fashioned way.
The amusement seemed not to have shocked me as much as I thought it should have done, and it was repeated as a preliminary on other days without my ever suggesting it. After I had had my first poke, the delicate titillation of the mouth seemed vastly pleasant, my prick then being temporarily fatigued by exercise in its natural channel but I felt annoyed with myself for relishing it at all.
I had not overcome prejudices then, though evidently my philosophy was gradually undermining them. Why, if it gives pleasure to the man to have his prick sucked by a woman, who likes operating that way on the male, should they be abused for enjoying themselves in such manner? A woman may rub it up to stiffen it, the man always does so if needful that is quite natural and proper. What wrong then in a woman using her mouth for the same purpose, and giving still higher, more delicate and refined pleasure? All animals lick each other’s privates, why not we? In copulation and its consequences, we are mainly animals, but with our intelligence, we should seek all possible forms of pleasure in copulation and everything else.
With these two women I was satisfied till toward the end of August, both of them trying to make me see them much. Gabrielle for some fancy of her own took to calling me Monsieur Gabrielle. I did not see her nearly so often as Camille, but one or other I saw almost daily, Camille generally between luncheon and dinner, Gabrielle after dinner. I have seen both on the same day, and then both were fucked, but I usually copulated but once daily. I was in good health, and one daily emission of semen kept me so and seemed as needful to me as sleep. I had much lewd pleasure in comparing mentally their two cunts, there being a most striking difference in the look of the two.
Near September I wanted to be by the seaside, and without delay took myself off to a healthy, but vulgarish town. It was a place where I expected a little fun, a few kisses from healthy lips and a little intrigue perhaps, and the chance of getting some young, healthy, unfucked cunt.
I know pretty well now that with town women out for a brief holiday, idleness, better air, more and better food than they are accustomed to, heats the cunts, and makes many a modest one long for a male, and discontented with her middle finger.
I had not been at my hotel a day before I met an intimate friend with his wife and eldest daughter, a girl of eighteen. He had taken the upper part of a house over a shop, being a man of but moderate means, and intended to have brought two other children and a maid, but something prevented that. I liked both him and his wife, and at his suggestion went to occupy one of his rooms and live with them paying my share . I found the rooms were over a greengrocers, which I didn’t like, and think I should have cried off had I not seen that the servant was a healthy, full-fleshed bitch, and I thought there might be a chance of prodding her, like Sally on a previous autumn.
The shop seemed flourishing. Anyone going in at the private door could not fail to see the whole of the shop, down to a small parlor having a window onto the garden. The first thing I noticed was a strong, healthy, red-cheeked, saucy-looking girl about eighteen years of age, with a curly but disheveled head of deep red colored hair, a very unusual and peculiar deep-red, and but rarely seen. The girl standing at the shop-front stared hard at me when I arrived, and nudged a big boy about seventeen years old who was half-sitting close by the girl upon a sack of potatoes. The girl called the woman of the house Aunt. She attended to the shop, I found, when the aunt was away cooking chiefly when so . The boy took home the goods purchased and left nightly after closing the shutters. Red-Head slept in the attics over me, and took off her boots at times as she went upstairs, so as not to make a noise over the lodgers’ heads. The aunt slept there also. The two ate in the kitchen or the shop-parlor.
I was at once cheery with the servant, but it did not promise much. The red-haired one another Louisa, and called Loo pleased me, though I did not like her hair. She spoke so loud, laughed so heartily with customers, took chaffing, lifted such heavy weights, and then flung her short petticoats about so much in moving her haunches, that I longed to pinch her. She looked so hard at me and also my friend when we passed the shop, for she was generally at the door, and often outside it, goods being placed there, that I made up my mind she was pretty strongly in want of a man.
In a day or two I was buying fruit two or three times daily. “Keep the change Loo, it will buy you some ribbon.”
“Oh! Thankee sir.” She put it quickly into her pocket without hesitation. Emboldened, I gave her half a crown.
“Keep the change, and you shall give me a kiss for it.” Into her pocket it went. She looked quickly toward the back of the shop: there was the boy. She slightly shook her head.
“I can’t,” said she in a low voice, taking the change out of her pocket and tendering it to me. I winked, pushed out my lips as if kissing and left the shop, leaving her the change. The boy was out of sight somewhere when I was buying the fruit.
Between eleven and one o’clock she was mostly alone, her aunt in the kitchen, the boy out, and the same for an hour or two in the afternoon.
Unfortunately, those were the bathing and promenading hours so there was difficulty in getting at the girl unobserved, but nothing stood in my way when cunt-hunting, and never had. From always thinking how and where, I all my life have got my opportunities with women. I also found that of an evening her aunt just at dusk went out at times to get, I heard her say, a mouthful of fresh air, Then the girl was alone with the boy till he left.
About the fourth night, the boy had left, Loo was alone in the shop’s parlor, my friends upstairs. I went out as I said to have a cigar and a stroll, but when just at the bottom of the stairs the shop door in the partition opened and Loo appeared. She stopped, I caught hold of her, and then I kissed her as I pleased.
“Oh! Don’t, Mary the servant is in the kitchen.” I kissed again. “Oh! don’t.”
“You owe me a kiss.”
“Oh! Not here, go to the front door,” said she. I did. She came there and just outside the door, but up against it, she kissed me and went rapidly back.
“I’ll wait for you as you go to bed,” I said, and did so with slippers off.
About half past ten she passed my bedroom. I heard movement in the room opposite to me, but on the landing I pinched Loo’s bum hard, very hard, as she passed. She winced and passed on very quickly, shaking her head and smiling, candle in hand. I put my head down, shamming to look up her clothes.
We were intimate already. I had begun double entendres which she took and I began to think that the fresh-looking saucy one knew a prick from a cucumber. Then I found that the servant went home each night to sleep.
It wasn’t a week before I wanted female assistance. Picking up a casual and thinking of my intention, I gave her five shillings to show me a bawdy house or two, which she did. One, a very quiet one, was in the part of the town over a china shop.
Parting with the woman I strolled onto the beach and met her there again, and felt her cunt, I sitting on a seat, she standing by the side of me, My cock stood and I gave her money for a poke. It was not a dark night. “There is sand low down,” said she, “no one will notice us when we are lying down,” But a fear came over me and I told her so.
“Well, I’ve got your money and if there was anything the matter with me, I’d hardly ask you to have me. I’m here every night, and live with my mother.” Then, near to the waves, she laid on her back on the soft, dry sands and I fucked her, and enjoyed her very much.
“How do you wash your cunt?”
“I piddle now, and wipe it with my handkerchief, down there nodding her head . There are rocks and pools of water. I’m going to wash it there, I always do after gents,” and she went off to do it.
Next day buying something, “Come Loo, and kiss me in the passage.”
“I can’t. He’ll be going out at half past eleven.” Excusing myself from accompanying my friends, I was at the lodgings at that hour. The servant above had then all the beds to make and the aunt was cooking. It was risky, yet I had a brief talk with Loo in whispers in the passage, and kissed and hugged her, and told her I had fallen deeply in love with her. I had not begun smut, but her bold manner made me wonder why I had not. That afternoon I overheard a quarrel between her and her aunt, and saw Loo wiping her eyes. Loo said to me, when I told her what I had heard, that she wished she’d never come and would sooner go to service.
I noticed also, for I was dodging in and out all day and listening in the passage where I could hear much said in shop and parlor, what seemed to me a very familiar manner between the girl and the boy. One day he took her round the waist. She, seeing me enter the shop, pushed his hand away and boxed his ears. He stooped, pulled her petticoats a little way up, and then suddenly appeared very busy. Evidently she had given him a hint. It annoyed me, and I wondered if the boy had felt her.
I did not quite give up hopes of the maid, who looked five and twenty. I kissed her and gave her a little present for cleaning my boots nicely. She took that fairly well. Then I felt for her notch outside her clothes. She repulsed me violently, and with a look which I didn’t like. So for a time I desisted, but recommenced, and at length kissed her every time I got her alone. My friend’s daughter caught me at it, and her father spoke to me. He didn’t mind, but his wife did. I must take care it wouldn’t do to let a young girl see that game going on. Nothing more was said, but I noticed that he and his wife looked after me.
One night when we were walking out alone, he said, “You want that woman, and a damned nice woman she looks. If my wife wasn’t here I’d try to get her myself, but for God’s sake don’t let either of the ladies catch you. It won’t do.”
The young lady’s room was opposite to mine, and such was my insatiable desire to see females in d shabil or nude, that it passed through my mind to bore a hole which I had done at foreign hotels through her door, to spy her. I could have done so, but I did not, though I could not restrain myself from listening to hear when she piddled, and a few times succeeded. I felt quite a liking for the girl, but not sexually, and brought her presents which pleased both her and her parents.
In a fortnight I had often kissed Loo, and pinched her bum till she said it was blue. I told her I should like to sleep with her, for I loved her. This was on the first night she got out for a walk at dusk. I had heard her aunt say she’d keep a tight hand on her, and I found Loo was fast almost to a gallop. We walked and sat down on a beach seat. “How can you love me? You’re married.”
“I never said I wasn’t, but I hate her and do nothing to her, and love you.”
“Oh, gammon!” she replied. I had now a little changed my opinion about the girl. She wanted to know the meaning of my “doing nothing,” was free in manner, and any delicate smut which I began using she answered frankly to. “Oh! I knows what you means well enough, but don’t you go on like that.” I concluded she had been brought up with coarse people who spoke of all their wants and acts openly, so that the girl saw no harm in such things. She had only been with her aunt that summer. She told me of her relatives, and where they lived in Northumberland. There was a large family, but that was all I could get out of her. “Yer don’t want to call on ‘em,” said she laughing.
All was soon finished with the servant. One morning I waited indoors in hopes of getting at Loo, and spied the servant as she brought a slop pail to the closet close to the bedroom.
When she came out I asked her into that room, which I had never entered before. “Come here, I’ve something particular to tell you.”
Reluctantly she came in, then I kissed, and gradually getting to the unchaste, got my hand on her cunt. “Be quiet, Mrs. Jones will be up to see if all’s right.”
“No, she’s out. Oh! What lovely thighs.”
“Oh, leave off, I’ll tell Mrs. Jones, I will.” I desisted for a moment, but only to pull out my prick. I pushed her against the bedside, and got my fingers onto her cunt again. “Let me have you.” I fucked her standing.
After, she took the money without a word, and pushed me off when I tried to kiss her, and I never got at her again.
More words have been written about My Secret Life than any other work of erotic prose or verse. It figures prominently in every post-1900 bibliography of erotica and study of erotic literature. When My Secret Life was “rediscovered” in the 1960s with the Grove Press reprint of the entire text, hundreds of essays, reviews and analyses of the book appeared in print. It is safe to say that no study of erotica or Victorian sexuality is now complete unless reference is made to My Secret Life. What, then, is this book, and why all the fuss?
My Secret Life is the longest, frankest most fact-filled sexual autobiography ever printed. The first edition was published in eleven thick volumes totaling over four thousand pages, nearly all of it descriptions of sexual activity or the author’s philosophy about sex. It is a firsthand, accurate, almost photographic picture of a Victorian sexual compulsive a “gentleman” who figures that he had sex with over twelve hundred women during his life nearly all of whom he paid to obtain their sexual favors . Fortunately for historians, sociologists, psychologists and psychiatrists, “Walter,” as the author of My Secret Life chose to refer to himself in his autobiography, was a more than competent recorder of his life and times. Details of dress, manners, social customs and activities of daily living, as well as the myriad of sexual diversions available to the Victorians, fell under his scrutiny, and were preserved in ink for future generations to study.
Who then is this Walter? The best evidence of his background, as taken from Walter’s own words, and those of contemporaries, indicate that he was born around the year 1820 into a middle-class family that experienced financial reversals several times during his life. He established himself in business and was financially successful enough to be able to travel extensively and afford the services of prostitutes several times a week. He died about 1894, and, other than writing My Secret Life, seems to have done nothing else in his life of lasting consequence.
Prefaces by the author himself indicate that My Secret Life was started for his own amusement as a diary when he was about twenty-five, in response to what he saw as the “truthfulness” of Fanny Hill, a “woman’s experience” without a male counterpart.
The book holds our attention primarily because of its enormity and compass. In terms of the actual number of sexual encounters described, it surpasses even the Memoirs of Casanova, and remains the most extensive sexual autobiography in the world. Then there is its invaluable insight into the sub rosa aspects of Victorian sexual life, and the author’s own musings on his obsessive desires and sex in general. Finally, there is Walter himself, a Casanova complex of grandiose proportions, literally begging to be taken to the psychiatric couch by trained professionals and amateur readers alike. Here, then, is the first of two excerpts from this extraordinary sexual autobiography. C.J. Scheiner, M.D.
Again I sought Camille’s society, who helped further to destroy any lingering prejudices I still had about the ways in which the sexes may use their genitals, either in giving pleasure to each other, or men with men, or women with women, and she told me so many erotic incidents of which she had heard or known, that I feel certain now, that whatever men and women may say in public about this and that being immoral, dirty, abominable, and so on that by themselves they give free reins to their lusts and gratify their sensuality in any way which they find gives them pleasure. Who can object to this? Your body is your own, and you may use it as you like. Its usage concerns no one else but its owner.
I was much out at parties just then, which diverted me in a degree from sexual vagaries, and for perhaps a month saw Camille only and but twice a week, so I was in fine condition when I had her. To make sure, I used to write to say when I should call, and always found her ready awaiting me. I used to fuck her with great delight in which she participated, for she undeniably is still fond of me, and that I must have been in fine condition. I am sure from the quantity of sperm I shed in her. She used to remark it. “Ah, mon Dieu, what sperm, there is enough for two men.” She several times said this and I verified it by inspection of her cunt occasionally, for it pleased me to think of my strength and health.
For all that, one day I frigged myself over a sheet of writing paper, to see how much sperm issued, and its quality.
A week or two after this I went to dine with a friend. He was a married man, childless, extravagant to a degree in expenditure generally, and particularly in fine food and wines he has since ruined himself . A dozen or so at us men had everything of the choicest which money could buy, and after sitting, eating, drinking and smoking for four hours, we left him. It had turned out a pouring night. I had no carriage, his house was a quarter of an hour walk from a cab stand, and his footman could procure me no cab. One of the guests kindly offered me a seat in his carriage for part of my way home, and at half past one in the morning, set me down at the top of Regent Street.
The deluge of rain had just ceased, and though pitch dark, it was clearing up. Never in my life have I seen Regent Street so deserted. The rain had long driven everyone home, and I don’t think I met six people on its whole length as I walked down it, pleased with the novelty of its absence of life, and glad to walk off the effects, in a degree, of my heavy gorging.
There was not even a gay woman to be seen until I got to the Haymarket. There, one or two only showed, and one asked me to pay her cab fare home, and a well-dressed woman she was cleaned out, without a farthing, the Argyle had been empty, not a friend had she got, she must walk home if someone did not give her half a crown, and she told me where she lived at West Brompton.
A dinner such as I had had always heats my testicles in two or three hours, and as I stood looking and listening to the young woman, a wave of lust rushed through my genitals, and I began to want a cunt. Yet I had no intention of having her, indeed had an intention not of having her for I had other views about the lodging of my penis next day. Then came on one of those bawdy inspirations I am subject to, and in spite of the evident absurdity of the offer looking at the dress and style of the woman though she was not quite a first class , jokingly I said, “I’ll give you a half crown if you’ll let me fuck you.”
I rarely accosted a female with such frank bawdiness, but I was a little elevated, though not in the least intoxicated. She seemed in a similar state, and laughing much replied, “Oh! Lord, I haven’t come to half a crown yet. You are liberal, but I’d sooner walk home if I get wet to my skin.”
I laughed about it. “Ah, you don’t want fucking.”
“That’s just what I do want, for I haven’t had a man for four days.”
“You’ve been poorly”
“Just what I have been or I shouldn’t want half a crown.” After a minutes more talk, I gave it her, and had intended to do so from the first. “Here it is, and a shilling for a glass of wine, and now if you won’t let me fuck you for half a crown, let me do it for love.”
“Thank you,” said she, not moving, but looking at me and clapping the money with a chink, from one hand to the other and then back again. “Did you expect I’d let you for half a crown?”
“No my dear, but for love.”
“Well, I’ll let you for love. Where shall we go?”
“What, to fuck you?”
”Yes, for love,” said she quite seriously.
Taken quite aback, I thought she was up to some trick. The empty streets and the time of night made me suddenly suspicious. “I was joking, I’m in a hurry, let me feel your cunt, that’s all.”
“Very well and all for love, mind.” There was a narrow court leading into a wider one then it still exists, though better lighted which looked dark enough and in a second we were in it, her back against a house, my finger on her cunt.
“You’ve got drawers on.”
“Well I can’t pull them off here, let us go to Overdon Street.” I would not, but between the loose linen I plied my fingers.
“I’ll frig you.”
“No, fuck me. No one will pass. I want it let me feel your prick.”
I wouldn’t let her. I got coy, began to want her, but didn’t like a strange woman in the dark. “No, I’ll frig you,” and I commenced, putting my left arm round her waist and my stick against the wall. She let me.
“Oh, fuck me do, I want it so. Oh, I shall spend you shan’t feel me unless you let me feel you,” and her hand sought my trousers. But before she could unbutton me, her bum shivered, she caught me round the head, pulled me to her, kissed me and my hat tumbled off as she murmured, “Oh oh you beast–oh oh you’ve made me spend.” And she was silent, whilst I picked up my hat.
“You haven’t spent.”
“I have though.”
“You haven’t,” I said, though I felt pretty sure she had done so. Then again I put my hand on her cunt, and after a fingering under the prick receiver, I satisfied myself that she had.
“Why didn’t you fuck me? I’ve never been frigged in a street before.”
“But you’ve frigged a man.”
“Only one or two. Why don’t you fuck me? Come fuck me for love, mind, let’s go to Overdon Street, or come home and sleep with me. I want you.”
I had dropped her petticoats, but I was so lewd now that I could scarcely restrain myself, and when holding me she began feeling at my trousers again, my resolution gave way.
“We can’t do it here.”
“Yes we can, no one will come through here. If anyone’s coming we can hear them. Do it to me. Oh, what a big one.” She had got hold of my prick, and then without another word, she lifted up her petticoats. “Damn my drawers,” said she. The next instant my prick was in her cunt and against the wall we fucked. The affair was short and she spent with me.
“I hope you are all right,” said I when my prick had left her.
“Quite. Don’t be frightened, come and see me. And she repeated her name and address and that every night she was at the Argyle rooms. “Is it likely I should have made you do it to me if I was ill? Come with me to a house and see me undressed. I’m beautifully made.” She tried hard to induce me but it was all useless.
Slight rain began to fall. “I’d best get back,” said she, and in the Haymarket she hailed a cab, and was going off.
“Stop my dear, you must have a little bit of gold.”
“I haven’t asked for any. And now you won’t come to see me, though you’ve just promised. I want you to have me for love.”
I had promised that I would go to see her, and repeated her name and address over again as she wished me, but certainly had no intention of doing so. She had a superstition that I should not after I paid her, but she took a half sovereign which I pushed into her hand.
“I’ll call on you soon.”
“No you won’t.”
“Yes I will.”
“No you won’t.” And the cab drove off as the “won’t” died away in the noise. I never did call on her or see her afterwards. She was a nice, bright-looking, dark-eyed woman, of one or two and twenty years of age perhaps.
I walked then down to the colonnade of the opera house, when a smart shower came on. I intended to go to my club which had not closed, to get some soda water but, being without an umbrella, waited two or three minutes. Just as I was about to hail a cab, a tall, full grown, portly looking woman, whom I had seen standing at the angle by Pall-mall, came up to me, addressed me with a broad Irish accent, and asked me to go with her. The accent was so broad, and it was such a novelty to hear anything like it out of Ireland, and she looked so portly, so like a respectable tradeswoman and so unlike a Paphian that being in a bawdy mood, far bawdier than when the other woman had asked me for a half crown, I stopped, talked, and then chaffed her.
Yes, she was Irish, and not ashamed of that, and had not long been in London. I’d just had a woman had I, but her soul, I’d never had a woman like she was, nor seen a cunt like hers. She’d swear she’d more hair on it than was on any two women’s cunts. If I’d go and see it, and she hadn’t told me God’s truth, I shouldn’t pay her anything. She was a married woman, but the times were so bad with them that she must get her bread somehow, would I come? No, she wouldn’t pull up her petticoats to show me in the streets not for five shilling which I offered “Yer a big baste to be after asking me to do it. Divil a bit if I will though but you may put your hand up and feel a bit.”
I accepted the offer, put my hand between her thighs, but long before I reached her cunt, as it seemed to me, I felt long hair. Then she jerked her rump back, and pushed down my hand from beneath the clothes. She had roused my curiosity, I chaffed on, she got angry, and extolled her own charms, and said there wasn’t a finer woman in London than she was. After telling her where I’d just fucked and she refusing still to do anything in the street to satisfy my curiosity it ended her saying, “never never in the street, I’d just sooner be dead no not for the half sovereign,” which at last I offered “but I’ll strip to ye, and ye may do what you like with me in a house, for half a sovereign and glad I’ll be to get it.” No, she was a stranger about there, and knew no houses. I took her to a convenient brothel nearby.
“Give me the half sovereign,” said she so soon as we were in the bedroom. A bilk thought I, but not caring whether I was bilked or not, for I had only taken her out of curiosity, I got the money ready.
“Then if you haven’t got such a hairy cunt as you say, I suppose you’ll give it me back,” said I laughing.
“Sure God there’s no chance of your getting it back, for it’s hairy as a King Charles,” dog she meant .
“Catch.” And I threw it to her. She caught it, spat upon it, and put it in her pocket.
“Sure and ye’ll say ye niver seed such a pussy as moine. Ye’ll be airfter giving me another bit of gould when you have seen it. Shall I take all my things off?” I nodded, and she began divesting herself of her clothing
As she did so, she went on demanding my admiration of her charms, in a very singular manner. I have known women very proud of their form, and who have shown great vexation if I made any remark even inferentially disparaging them. I have known some who drew my attention to some particular part of their form, and which in most cases justified their self praise, but this Irish woman extolled herself from head to foot as she undressed “Isn’t that a foine arm look here’s breasts I needn’t be ashamed of my feet’s not big for my size is it? I’ve a splendid leg haven’t I?” and so on, and certainly she’d a good deal to be proud of. Looking at her under the colonnade, with indifferently made, homely clothes, put on seemingly in a heap, she gave no promise of what was underneath. She looked what may be called, a homely, motherly woman, and one I should never have lusted for.
“Let me see your cunt,” said I.
“Wait a bit.” She drew off her chemise. “There did you ever see anything like that?” Indeed I never had, for I could not see the cunt at all, but only a long pendant mass of darkish brown hair, which, seeming to be rooted in her mons, hung down some inches below her cunt, and hid it entirely from view. It reminded me of a patriarchal beard, and I laughed, which much offended her.
Astonished curiosity at once made me serious, for a cunt is never a thing to be laughed at its view is too absorbing and stimulating. Quickly I got her onto the bed. She opened her thighs quite wide, and pulling aside the shaggy covering, I saw a cunt of the usual mature type but with long hair though not so long as that from the motte surrounding it. The hairs everywhere had but slight signs of curling. The shorter ones at the upper part had perhaps a little curl, but the rest were long, nearly straight and in large quantity. To please her I said it was fine, but I thought it ugly. Yet the novelty stiffened me. “I’ll fuck you,” said I.
“Sure an yer may.” And she moved on to the bed.
“No, here, I want to see the hair round my prick,” and bringing her to a proper position up it went into her. The hair mingled with mine and hid every vestige of my balls as I looked down. Then I pushed her thigh high up over my shoulder with my left hand and held her to me with it, whilst I buried my fingers in the shaggy thicket and spent very soon up her.
“You’ve not spent,” said I still up her.
“Sure and I haven’t, and I ought wid such a poker,” she replied in the strongest brogue and we went talking till I found myself nearly out of her.
“Lift up both your legs,” said I, and she complied. I meant to do it when I asked her, and laying hold of the cunt beard the best name for it , I drew it right across the orifice, which showed, when my prick was out of it, my semen issuing, and wiped it with the hair. “I never saw a cunt which could be wiped with its own hair before.”
“No and I dare say never will, and it’s a baste that you be adoing it.” Yet she laughed, as she washed her cunt. I felt it as she rose from the basin, and it was just like a wet mop.
She dried it and again I looked. There was hair all round the cunt it was long and ragged. It was about the ugliest cunt I have ever seen. Straight hair on a cunt is always ugly. It usually curls, though I have seen several with straight hair, and that on one or two very nice women. But this woman was proud as peacock of her hirsute gap.
“Lay still,” said I, as I sat contemplating it for I now began to be curious about the woman, whom in all my midnight prowling I had never seen before.
“Sure and you’ll give me a trifle more if you keep me long.” I promised that. Then I lay feeling my prick whilst I pulled her about in various ways. She had only the usual quantity of hair in her armpits and on her head. She had not a bad form, though too thick at the joints to be handsome. She, however, evidently thought herself a beauty from head to foot. She must have been between thirty-five and forty years old.
“You’ve had children.”
“Yes and three alive worse luck,” or she would not be at that kind of work, she’d got plenty to do with all she got, and ever would get she supposed. She had no regular friends. She wouldn’t mind meeting me again. But she couldn’t do it before half past eleven no never she wouldn’t say why no what did it matter to me whether she was married or not. Then I put down another half sovereign. Then she said, “Are you going to do me again?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Try get on the bed and on top of me properly.”
“Do you want it?”
“Maybe I shall,” and though I didn’t like either her or her cunt, on to the bed and on top of her I got, had another fuck, and hard work I found it. “Haven’t I a nice pussy?” said she, as I lay up her.
That finished the business, and we left together. Should she meet me “but not before half past eleven” I made no assignation, said I should take my chances some night of seeing her after the theaters were closed, but I never did and didn’t want. Next day I wondered how I had ever tailed her, so ugly did her cunt seem to me when I thought of it.
The woman no doubt was gay but she was for all that not much like a gay woman in manners not that she had any modesty. Ah! no yet she seemed to show her nakedness out of conceit, not bawdiness.
Penthouse Letters receives and prints the sexiest real letters of any current magazine. PL did not, however, invent this genre, but in fact follows a grand tradition that is over two centuries old. The dawn of the eighteenth century industrial revolution and the introduction of semiautomated printing presses made it economically possible for the first time to place diverting, inexpensive material within the grasp of the working class on a weekly, even daily, basis. Simultaneously, social reforms, specifically those geared to reducing illiteracy, produced a new and ever-growing readership, eager for any new amusements publishing entrepreneurs could offer them.
The common news items–politics, foreign wars, disasters, the weather weren’t enough to grab and hold the potential reader’s attention. Then, as today, gossip, scandal, sex and violence served this purpose best. The racier the headlines, the bigger the readership and the bigger the publisher’s profits.
Newspapers were fine for the news and editorials, but the masses’ thirst for entertainment led to the creation of the magazine as we know it today. At first ostensibly “news” publications, and protected from prosecution as such, the real intent of the more daring of these publications was obvious. Rereading today the eighteenth and early nineteenth century English weekly “catch penny” magazines they cost but a penny or two, hence their name such as The Crim. Con. Criminal Conversations Gazette, The Bon Ton Gazette, The New Bon Ton, The Rambler, The New Rambler’s Magazine, The Ferret, Peter Spy, The Pearl, The Cremorne and The Boudoir, one finds that, except for the spellings of words and the archaic language, they read just like modern scandal tabloids. Lurid descriptions of brutal murders, domestic violence and illicit affairs filled the pages. Perhaps most risqu of all the printed “news” magazines was the salacious The Crim. Con. Gazette, which featured criminal conversations entered as evidence in divorce hearings. The kinky allegations of celebrated recent divorces, such as that of the Pulitzers, had nothing on what our great-great-great-great grandparents could read in their magazines.
Grub Street Journalism, named for the area in London where the scandal sheets originated, developed as a separate journalistic tradition. All semblance of legitimate news was slowly replaced with more and more titillating gossip and “gut smut.” Racy short stories and excerpts from sexy and banned books were added to pad the nonfictional fare. The evolutionary apotheosis of this trend was achieved in The Pearl 1879-1881 , a blatantly pornographic Victorian monthly.
The trend in adult mass-market magazines has since that time drifted back toward the eighteenth century model with factual news, including matters of sexual health, and particularly letters becoming an integral part of the format. Letters to the editor, letters to advice mavens, or letters sharing personal experiences have been found to boost popularity, so letters have become an important part of the modern adult magazine. Technology has allowed for more and better photoillustration and that’s a capsule history of the evolution of the magazine you hold in your hands.
This month’s book bonus is an example of a Penthouse Letters submission of one hundred thirty years ago. It contains excerpts from sexually explicit letters written between the Count de la Rochefoucault and his married mistress in 1859, while the Count was an attach to the French Embassy in Rome. These letters, in French, were discovered when, during the course of divorce proceedings, the cuckolded husband broke into his wife’s davenport. A sworn notary translated the letters for the magistrate, who felt they were too licentious and scandalous to be read in open court so the judge took the letters home with him to read! The adulteress was a woman of about forty-five, of randy temperament. Like so many older women, then as now, she provoked an extremely strong sexual infatuation in a younger man.
It is almost poetic irony that the same law that tries to suppress sexually explicit fiction and prose compels the same to be made publicly available when it is evidence or testimony in legal proceedings. As part of the official record, unexpurgated and unedited material becomes public domain, printed in the legal records for the lawyer, the scholar and the prurient equally. No wonder the Holywell Street publishers the nineteenth century London district roughly equivalent to New York City’s 42nd Street “porno” area printed up such testimony whenever they could for sale.
I hope you will enjoy and be inspired to write in by these excerpts from so long ago. C.J. Scheiner, M.D.
When I shall have undressed my adorable little mistress it will be nine o’clock. She will be mad with desire, delirious from passion and rapturous excitements, her maddening look, exciting in the highest degree, will arouse all the strength I possess, and enable me to exhaust her so completely that she herself will attain the height of happiness. The greater the refinement and delicacy of my caresses, the greater will be your happiness the more languishing your eyes become, the more will your pretty mouth unclose itself the more your tongue becomes agitated, the more will your bosoms, firm and soft as velvet, become distended, and their nipples grow large, red and appetizing. Then will your arms grow weaker, and then will your angelic legs open themselves in a voluptuous manner, and then seeing ourselves reflected on all sides in the mirrors, shall I take you in my arms in order to excite you with my hand, whilst your little rosy fingers will similarly excite me with vigor, and I shall suck your divine nipples with passion. When the agitation of your little legs, of your lovely little derriere, of your head, and those murmurs of pleasure prove to me that you are at the point of emission, I shall stop and carry you to a piece of furniture made to sustain your head, your back, your bottom and your legs, and having secured an opening sufficiently wide to allow my body to pass erect between your legs, I shall fuck you with frenzy with my enormous and long member, which will penetrate to the mouth of your womb. Being squeezed by your pretty legs, which will bring me closer to you, I shall wriggle my strong pretty member, which you love, with more vigor than ever my testicles will touch your little bottom, and this contact will provoke such an abundant flow of the essence of love in your little cunt that I shall be as wet as if I were in a bath.
How I fear to leave off here! But we shall see. Do not write to me by the night post, it is useless! It is true that when I am near you in a carriage I have difficulty in remaining quiet. Oh, no, do not alarm me by your insatiability, my desire is much greater than yours, there is not the slightest comparison to be drawn between us from a physical point of view, but as far as our moral nature and hearts are concerned, we can rival each other.
1:30. I was most annoyingly interrupted by the luncheon bell, and afterwards I played a game of Fourreau a game all the fashion at Verteuil , and here I am again. I have just refused to accompany my father and mother on a drive in the neighborhood, so that I shall be able to write to you more at length.
You tell me that you like the little costume, but that is all you say, and you give me no details as to liking the colors, length and shape. I believe, my treasure, my jewel, that your bosoms will be white, swollen and soft as velvet, and it is very nice of you to tell me that my hands will have difficulty in containing them and putting their ruby tips to my mouth.
You are quite right in saying that you will develop my virility, it is you who have made my member what it is now. I repeat, on my word of honor, perhaps you will not like to hear these details, but, nevertheless, I shall say it. You are the first woman in the world who has stimulated that essence which flows from my prick, which your kisses have rendered so pretty, and it is you who have plucked the flower of my virginity. Never have I had any other woman, and whatever may be the misfortunes to which I may be destined, it will always be an immense and ineffable happiness to me to think that I have given and lost it through the luscious draughts you offer. It is, and it will be, perhaps, the greatest blessing, and the only consolation of my life. But before God it is a great one, and my enjoyment has not been such as one can expect to find in this world. I do not believe that even he who had the pleasure to rob you of your virginity was as pure as myself, and as for voluptuous pleasures, if there be any greater than that which I know, I promise you never to learn or seek it. I do not wish to have any other woman spoken of, they all disgust me, even to look at them. You know it, and you know that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, in you to disgust me, but all that belongs to you maddens me, and I love and adore all. It has become a madness, and you know it, for when you are kind you acknowledge at least the idea by letter.
In you everything appears different and pure. The purity which reigns in your every feature, the excess of refinement which exists in your whole body, your hands, your feet, your legs, your cunt, your bottom, the hairs of your private parts, all is appetizing, and I know that the same purity exists in all my own desires for you. As much as the odor of women is repugnant to me in general, the more do I like it in you. I beg of you to preserve that intoxicating perfume but you are too clean, you wash yourself too much. I have often told you so in vain. When you will be quite my own, I shall forbid you to do it too often, at most once a day. My tongue and my saliva shall do the rest.
If it is necessary, let the doctor examine you, and mind he does not fall in love with you. I bet he has never before seen anything so seducing, so pretty or so perfect. It is to be hoped that the irritation you speak of does not proceed from the size of my member.
I would lavish the following caresses upon you, angel of my delight, were I a little calmer. I had a dream, such as it was, about it last night, and only remember it just now by way of explanation of my mad excitement of this morning. I saw you as I was asleep, you were by my side frigging me with your fingers of love, and you heard me say to you, “I see you there.” You were as lovely as Venus, your lusciousness and lasciviousness were at their very height, your body was completely perfumed for my enjoyment so that I might lick you. You had painted the most seductive parts of your person. Your shoulders were white, your rosy bosoms revealed themselves through a rose-colored gauze trimmed with bows of the same hue. Your thighs, as well as your navel and your heavenly bottom, were revealed through a heavenly gauze, your legs were clad in rose-colored stockings. The sperm flowed how much I needed the release! This is true, for my testicles were swollen in an alarming manner.
Oh, my child, my pretty little mistress, if you only knew how much I suffer from the excessive heat, and the privation in which I live! Without exaggeration, my testicles are enormous. My member is as large, straight and stiff as my arm. I am mad with desire for you. I had the unhappy idea of going to bed again. My mind was full of this dream I had had, and of which you were, of course, the subject. Then I thought of the caresses which you would have been obliged to submit to. And at last, in consequence of your letter of yesterday, a mere half sheet, so pretty at the beginning and at the end, but yet quite beside the question, I found myself engaged in the act of rubbing myself with frenzy, and of stroking myself and of frigging my prick until I was exhausted, before I could discharge the merest drop. That was too much for me, and now I desire you like a madman. If a delicious half sheet does not arrive by the Embassy bag, I know not what will become of me. I have had an emission. I am saved. I feel myself so relieved. You have forbidden my going with other women. You are determined that I shall not have a discharge with anyone but yourself, and that I fuck no one but you. Oh! How I love you.
It is two o’clock in the morning, I have violated and worked you well, kissed, frigged, licked and sucked you, obliged you to yield to desires the most debauched, the most shameless, during the whole of the afternoon. All the afternoon, too, I have got you to suck my member and my testicles. I have made you pass your tongue between my toes and under my arms. I have got you to paint your body. I was almost on the point of getting you sucked and licked by a pretty maid, perfectly naked, between your legs, but you withdrew from my delirium.
I have had discharges from jealousy. I have discharged at least forty times, and when, after having left you to go to my club. I returned home, and finding you fast asleep from exhaustion, I awakened you and insisted upon your frigging me with your rosy fingers, all the while licking my parts. You implore me. You are wearied, but I am intractable. You must do it in order to excite yourself as much as I am myself excited. I suck your breasts with frenzy. The sucking that I have given your bosoms, and the fear you have lest I should fetch a girl to violate you with her breasts in your cunt, filling your womb with her nipples to excite your senses, stimulates you unbearably. And then you hear a voice whose sound alone so pleasingly tickles your womb, saying to you, “My pretty mistress. I implore you to abandon yourself to me. I will love you so fondly. I will be so kind and gentle, I am so handsome, I will do all you can possibly wish. I know so well how to have and suck a woman, my member is enormous, it is beautiful, rose-colored, large, long, hard and vigorous. Yield yourself to me.”
Tell me if you like this one.
When you are ready you will call me so that I may come and say my daily “How do you do.” You will begin by taking my prick out of my trousers, then, half opening your gown, you will lift up your pretty chemise with one hand, and will pass your other arm, soft as satin, round my neck. I shall embrace you tenderly, then I shall lick your snow-white shoulders and your bosoms, which seem to be bursting from the imprisonment of your rose-colored stays embroidered with lace. I shall lick between your legs, over your divine little bottom, your nymph-like thighs being at that moment on my knees. Then you will place your angelic little feet, with your stockings on, one after the other in my mouth. After this you will send me into the dining room, in order to get rid of the servants, and, by this time, filled with an amorous and impassioned languor, each of your movements will breathe forth the frenzy and voluptuousness of passion.
There will be only one chair, and the table will be laid for only one person. We shall each of us have only one hand free, I the right, and you the left. Then you will sit upon my left leg, which you have found means to make naked you will have unfastened your gown in such a way that it will hang down behind, and your right hand will caress and stroke my enormous prick, which you will have taken between your legs without putting it into your angelic cunt, whilst my left arm will wind itself round your lovely waist in order to bring you still nearer to me.
After breakfast, which will have lasted till half past twelve, and which will have given you strength, we will go into the little rose-colored boudoir. I shall place myself in a low narrow chair, and as I shall be very much excited by your enchanting looks, my enormous member will come out of its own accord from its prison, and you will sit astraddle upon me, introducing, with the greatest difficulty, my pretty and vigorous prick into your pretty girl-like cunt. You will wriggle about from sheer enjoyment, then stop your movements every time I tell you I am on the point of discharging, so as to increase my desires and my transports of happiness.
Then in half an hour’s time you will get up and place yourself upon the sofa, whilst I, at your desire, shall slip off all my clothes. Then you will get up from the sofa and take off your dressing gown, only keeping on what you have underneath. In my turn I will stretch myself on the sofa, getting every moment more delirious with passion, for your dress, betraying the delicious outlines of your figure, without revealing it entirely, will render me almost beside myself, and will make my prick so long and so stiff that you will hardly be able to sit on its point. And then, as I introduce it into your delicious cunt, in spite of its size, I will force from you sighs and murmurs of rapture. At last, when once seated, fucked by my manly and powerful prick, you will throw yourself backwards. I should lean my enraptured legs against your bosoms, in order that you might lick my feet, while you would pass your amorous and divine legs, softer, whiter, and more rose-tinted every day, over the whole breadth of my chest, placing your tiny goddess-like feet in my mouth. As our desires would augment at every moment, you would allow me, would even ask me, to take off your garters, your pretty stockings and your slippers, in order to procure me the luxury of licking every part of your body, and of realizing in the most perfect manner the intense enjoyment arising from the contact of the most delicate, the most woman-like, the most voluptuous portion of your body. My hands would frig your little love of a member, my manly prick would kiss your celestial womb and my thighs would caress your delicious bottom. When I have worked you in this way for an hour, ceasing every moment you were on the point of emission, I should, as I withdrew my member, let you at last discharge, and, pressing my mouth to this delicious font, allow an immense stream of love to flow into my mouth, which, suddenly and as if by enchantment, would find itself in the place of my member, while your bosoms would be covered with that white essence which would escape from my amorous member.
Every day after dinner, reclining voluptuously on a couch, you would snatch a few moments of repose while I was taking off all my clothes. When I had finished, and when I, filled with love, had shown myself to your contemplation, you would give up to me your place upon the sofa, and, assuming the most seductive, the most coquettish and the most graceful attitudes, you would come and play with my member, whose vigor would arise solely from the sight of your pretty costume, which, I am convinced, would render you more delicious than the most graceful fairy. You would love me so deeply that I should cease to have any power of will. You would have exhausted me, sucking me completely dry, nothing would remain in my prick, which would be more full at desire, more enormous, and stiffer at every moment. My languishing eyes, gentle as love itself, surrounded by large dark blue circles caused by your look, your tongue, your bosom, your cunt, your member, your heavenly little bottom, your legs, your fingers and your angelic little feet, would tell you how complete was my happiness, my intoxication, my ecstasy, and my faint, exhausted but happy voice would give you the same assurance, murmuring with rapture in your ears “Oh! How I love you, my lady love, my divine little virgin. Caress me yet once more, again, still again, it is a dream. Thank you, oh, thank you, and yet again. Oh, I am in heaven, do not pause, I implore you, suck me harder than ever, lick me well. Oh! What rapture! Ask me what you will, it shall be yours. You are my mistress, no other but you in the whole world can transport me in this way. Frig me with your knees. Oh! Oh! Oh! I am going to discharge!”
Then, more full of passion than any woman had ever been, and enraptured as you listened to my voice, completely beneath your sway, you would raise your little coquettish petticoat, and pressing your dear little loves of calves more closely together, for you would be on your knees, you would frig me in this manner, with greater vigor than ever, sitting down every now and then upon your tiny little heels, in order the better to release my beautiful prick, perfectly straight and rudely swollen and inflamed with passionate desires sprung from between your divine thighs, as soft as satin, and as white as snow, to better introduce the wet tips of your lovely and velvet-like bosoms into the seductive little hole of my member. My knees, raised slightly behind, would gently caress your bottom, so as to give you some little satisfaction in your turn. And at last, unable any longer to retard the moment of emission, you would bend forward, resting upon both your hands, to increase my desire, and keeping yourself back a little distance from me, while your petticoats would now cover my head, and act almost like an electrical conductor upon me, you would intoxicate me with the perfume exhaled from your legs, from your member, from your cunt, from your bottom, and you would slack my thirst and complete the celestial transport by shooting, with eager rapture, between my burning lips some of that woman’s nectar which you alone possess, and which, emanating from you alone in the world, is worthy of the gods.
You cannot form any idea of my excitement at this moment. I hope you will like this, and will answer me prettily. Am I sufficiently in love? And do you believe that there will be another woman in the whole world beside yourself for whom I shall have any desire? Oh, how wild is the longing that I have for you at this moment, and this nectar I have spoken of, from whom else could I care for it, could I endure it even, whilst from you evoking what mad delight! Tell me, do you believe this? You know it perfectly well, I am sure these are not mere words. Tell me that you will discharge into my mouth again when I ask you. I am now going to try to sleep, but what chance have I of doing so with this love that consumes me? I must await your pretty letter of tomorrow morning, for it is that alone which will excite the flow and stream.
Someone is coming. Adieu!
The Beat Generation at the 1950s was embodied in Jack Kerouac’s novel On The Road, which narrates the cross-country auto trip of two young men who came to typify the cool cats and beatniks at post-Korean War America. The book in many ways became the Bible for a social and literary phenomenon that is now, for the most part, forgotten.
The sixties had its own hallmark novel, its own On The Road, too, but, being published in Europe, it never achieved widespread fame in America. Entitled Intimate Interviews, it appeared in Paris in July 1960. The author called himselt Ralph Storm. The publisher was Maurice Girodias, owner of the infamous Olympia Press, perhaps the greatest purveyor of quality erotic literature in history.
Surrounded by American expatriate authors who had come to Paris to enjoy the social and sexual freedoms they were denied in the United States, Girodias had an endless supply of original erotic novels and, in the name of freedom, sexual liberation and the fast buck, he published them at breakneck speed. Despite chronic police harassment, he was able to issue nearly two hundred books between 1953 and 1965, all by dint of his guile, guts and wiliness. For example, he often reissued banned beaks with only the title and first pages changed to confuse French vice inspectors. The inspectors, knowing no English, could only compare titles on bookstore shelves to outdated lists of prohibited titles issued to them by their superiors.
The plot of Intimate Interviews is simple. The protagonist is a young Swedish woman named Astrid, a freelance journalist hitching her way through Europe on assignment. She interviews every man she meets en route, in a journalistic style that is, to say the least, unorthodox. She considers a profile not fully complete until she has bedded the subject and added his genital measurements to her diary! The book is the account of these intimate interviews. The encounters are many and varied and include, but to name a few, a black army officer, a writer doing theological research, an old antiquarian bookseller, a Fellini-esque director, a Corsican bandit, a gym instructor and a faded American movie producer.
Astrid is an educated and financially self-sufficient woman with a career. She is hedonistic by her own choosing, not just to satisfy some male lover. In a way, she is the older sister of Candy the archetypical flower child portrayed in the 1958 novel of the same name by Mason Hoffenberg and Terry Southern also published by Olympia Press in Paris . She does not live in a world of double standards, nor act as if she did. For her, there are no moral self-recriminations when she seeks and obtains the same erotic satisfactions that men already expect and enjoy.
As to the author of Intimate Interviews, “Ralph Storm” is known to be a pseudonym, but to this date the author’s real identity is unknown. Evidence within the text, including neologisms, heavy American slang, references to the Beat Generation and a reference to the almost completely unknown 1940s American porno novel The Strange Cult would indicate an American, perhaps already forty years old. With little other evidence to go on, the true authorship of this sexual Odyssey may well never be discovered.
The modern reader might find the attitudes and activities in Intimate Interviews alien and at times horrifying. Since the advent of the AIDS epidemic, orgies and “unsafe sex” are now reserved for those with a death wish. How sexually reactionary we have had to become in just a few short years! Ralph Storm’s book is now a historical reminder of a recent past when sex was carefree, practiced among equals, and didn’t mandate the use of a condom. It was a time when sex could be completely spontaneous, without preoccupations of pregnancy or disease. In fact, if medical science does not make a breakthrough, future readers will view Intimate Interviews with a sense of envious nostalgia for a time when sex really was better.
The girl saw the car coming down the autobahn like a fireball. The sun, reflected in its windshield, lanced at her eyes in blinding flashes. That thing sure is traveling, she thought, fretfully wrinkling her forehead and making futile attempts at gathering up her long hair: the wind blew it into a softly undulating weather vane around her head. Pertly, but without much hope she hooked the air with her thumb in the old, familiar gesture a little viciously, perhaps, as so many cars had already passed by without picking her up and then let her arm drop. ”I’ll never get there in time,” she loudly complained to herself.
The drivers as car after passing car had pushed a walloping wall of air against the girl were so dumbfounded at what they saw that it didn’t really register until they were a good half mile away from the point of impact, so to speak, for the sight of this hitchhiker hit them almost as forcefully as a blow to the solar plexus. When the message that their visual sensation had flashed onto their brains had been decoded, it was too late to react. Or was it, really? Anyway, they all went screaming on down the flat expanse of the autobahn, their mouths either agape or twisted into disgusted curses.
Behind them by the wayside there stood a young girl whose proportions just barely missed being Junoesque. She filled the space about her with such a profusion of ellipsoidal curves as would have put old Euclid himself in a dither. But there was discipline and fine proportion in them, and a cunning juxtaposition that made their opulence not cloying, but achingly desirable. Satisfaction, great satisfaction undoubtedly awaited he who would know how to lay them out on love’s abscissa, on passion’s ordinate. But where was he among all those fleet denizens of the highway? With such satisfaction in sight, who would heed the stern, Platonic dictum: “Let no one enter who is unacquainted with geometry ” and deem himself unworthy of a tilt at the gate?
The tall girl had no idea of what motley regrets and rueful realizations she had awakened in those who passed. She only thought them egotistical old boobs. Too lazy to stop and pick her up, and was getting good and mad after a full quarter of an hour’s wait there by the roadside. Executing an impatient though flawless pirouette, she suddenly stumbled over her little rucksack humbly squatting on the ground beside her and, in a pretty pique, gave it mean little kicks with her Ferragamo-shod feet. “Darn it, oh, darn it!” she said, almost close to tears in her frustration. “Somebody just has to pick me up, or I won’t even get there…”
At that moment, the car that was approaching her, as if propelled by some new, exotic fuel and driving quite close to oncoming traffic, cut sharply to what was the driver’s right, coming now almost straight at her. Then he started to brake, his car lashing and jerking from side to side, the tires ripping at the concrete, in short, angry grabs. Within perhaps thirty seconds the car had come to a halt about ten yards from where the girl stood, almost brushing against her legs when it passed, swaying her slightly. For an instant she just stared in astonishment, but then quickly came to her senses. Picking up her diminutive rucksack on the way she lithely strode toward the car.
It was a Mercedes 300 SL, low-slung and hell-bent for speed. As the girl reached it, the right door swung outward and up with silent, roller-bearing precision, and a gloved hand the size of an entrenching tool reached out.
“Give me your knapsack, ma’am, and I’ll stow it away back here,” the driver said, his voice hung with the mangrove accent of the South.
The girl obeyed and then put a shapely leg into the car in an attempt to seat herself.
“Wait a minute, there,” the driver softly admonished. “It’s a lot easier to get in if you first sort of sink down into the seat from the outside and then pull your legs in afterwards.”
The girl again obeyed him without a word and this time seated herself comfortably without any trouble. The driver reached over and pulled the door down it shut with a blue-chip click. Then he slammed his simonized sprinter into first gear for a neck-snapping takeoff, and with gluttonous modulations ran the gamut of gears, soon high-balling it down the wide-open autobahn with his hitchhiker safely tucked in beside him.
The girl hadn’t had time to look at the driver in her eagerness to get in and be off. Now that the wind was no longer playing havoc with her hair, she took out a comb from her rucksack, turned around to her right and briskly untangled her hair, blonde as a sheaf of wheat.
“I thought nobody would ever pick me up,” she said, her tongue voicing the American speech with familiarity. She turned then at last to look at the driver. When she laid her blue eyes on him the comb stopped its policing action and she froze as if in disbelief.
“Oh!” she managed. And then, in a tone of rising awareness and even of growing delight. “Oh! “
The driver turned his head to momentarily look full into her face. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. ”I’m Lieutenant Wigglesworth. Michael Wigglesworth. My friends call me Tiny though. That’s because I’m so big,” he added and smiled apologetically. “Anyway, you just go right ahead and call me Tiny, maam. And I’d be most obliged to you if you sort of didn’t quote it at me while we travel together, if you know what I mean.” He laughed. “It gets awfully tiresome sometimes. Makes me feel a lot bigger than I really am.”
He smoothly overtook a big truck, its exhaust belching out acrid fumes, and swung back into the right-hand lane again. “May I ask where you’re going?” he politely asked, looking with satisfaction up the highway, clear of traffic in both directions as far as he could see.
The girl had resumed combing her hair, meanwhile closely eyeing her companion.
“I’m glad to meet you, Tiny,” she finally said, almost timidly. “I’m going down to Italy.”
She put the comb away in her rucksack and settled down in her seat with a contented sigh, crossing her legs and continuing her scrutiny of the lieutenant.
Then she asked, almost idly, “Is it really true what they say about Dixie?”
“What’s that?” The lieutenant took his eyes off the road for an instant to glance at her. “Well, I’ve never had the opportunity to talk to a…a…well, to a black American before,” the girl confided, frowning slightly. “I’m a journalist, you see, and I’m very much interested in the color problem over there. Naturally, I’ve read An American Dilemma, written by my compatriot Myrdal a fine book, by and large, with plenty of useful information and all that. Impressive methodology displayed there, too can’t beat Myrdal when it comes to that, you know. But I’m sure hot for some first-hand dope on this question…Some authentic stuff. After all, I’m a journalist and I’ve got to look at the world from the human-interest angle. Now, I was thinking that perhaps you could clue me on this and then maybe I can cook up a story.”
She moved slightly closer to the lieutenant and said in a low voice, “I think it’s a shame the way America treats her colored people. The whole thing is…is…is a blot on her escutcheon.” She was quiet for a while and, as the lieutenant remained silent, went on, conversationally now. “By the way, my name’s Astrid, I’m Swedish and on my way to Italy to interview Giacomo Giubiasco, the Corsican bandit or at least have a try at it, because he’s awfully elusive.”
The girl impulsively unbuttoned her blouse and bared a black brassiere bordered with a delicate tracery of lace trimmings. “Here are my credentials,” she said, proudly arching her back and thrusting her dingdong impedimenta forward. A press ID card, encased in celluloid, was neatly stitched onto one commodious cup of her bra. The lieutenant took a quick look and was so startled that he nearly rode his firedragon off the highway.
“Lord, what did I see?” he softly queried and stole another glance at the girl, but she was carefully locking up her treasures now.
“Well, what do you say, Tiny? Now that you’ve seen my credentials, how about it? You got some stuff for me?” She looked earnestly at him. “Only you, a representative of black America, can give me the real stuff, the genuine thing.”
The lieutenant felt his member writhing beneath his tight khaki pants. With her brazen brand of journalism, the girl beside him excited him as much as she disturbed and amused him. He had heard the same spurious commiseration on the lips of stateside liberals and parlor-pinks white girl students with glasses and an absentmindedly provocative way of crowding you when they talked. What they really had been after had turned out to spell neither s-o-c-i-a-l j-u-s-t-i-c-e nor M-a-r-x. This Scandihoovian number, now, with her bland assumption of a long-suffering South, seemed to be the prototype of them all…
He was suddenly jolted out of his reverie by the girl, who gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow.
“What are you thinking of, Tiny?” she wanted to know. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”
He laughed briefly then and without mirth. “Sure, sure, ma’am. I was just thinking…Well, just exactly what would you like to know…about Dixie?”
“Well, a lot of things. But don’t forget the human interest angle. For a starter…let’s see…Well, how many times have you barely escaped being lynched?” She mouthed the last word like some savory fruit.
“Now, wait a minute, honey,” he remonstrated. This was outrageous. He’d really have to set this babe straight. She was beginning to sound like a member of the Komsomol interviewing Paul Robeson.
“I think I’d better straighten you out,” he began, when the girl interrupted him.
“Tell you what,” she said, “if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine or better still, I’ll let you feel mine.”
“Come again?” English as spoken by Europeans was sometimes rather puzzling, the lieutenant had already found out. Better make sure.
“Oh, why don’t you just let the poor thing out?” she demanded then, apparently exasperated, and before he could say Sugar Ray Robinson the girl had unzippered his fly and roughly extricated his throbbing member. It instantly snapped erect.
The lieutenant let out a startled whoop, and the car wove in great skidding curves back and forth on the highway for a moment before he succeeded in correcting the violent twist he had involuntarily given the wheel.
“Gee-whillikers, lieutenant!” the girl exclaimed, her eyes intently sizing up his member. “I’d hesitate to call that tiny!”
“Nothing peewee about it, is there, now?” the lieutenant grimly agreed, touching off the girl’s journalistic instinct for accuracy. She whipped out a tape measure from a pocket in her slacks and quickly laid the cold, graduated steel along his erect member, then as quickly wrapped the tape around it to get the circumference. The lieutenant drew in his breath in a long, hissing gasp.
“Goddam, woman, what are you doing?” He grappled briefly with the wheel again.
“Oh, shush!” the girl said. “Got to be accurate about these things, you know. I’ve got a reputation for accuracy for authenticity and I don’t want to louse it up.” She entered her Priapic figures in a Leathersmith address book and then checked what seemed to be rows of logarithms.
“Well, well,” she concluded after a while. “You beat ‘em all, Tiny. That’s a whopper you’ve got there. You are no three-inch fool.”
The girl was so pleased with her findings that she laughed and gave him a playful shove with her leg. “Isn’t that right, hey, Tiny?” But she quickly became serious again, almost reverent. “Jesus! Let me touch it again, will you?” she breathed, and clasped his massive member with delicate fingers, getting a stranglehold on its fat chicken-neck, as it were, but gently massaging it in long, determined strokes, her thumb meanwhile expertly fretting the soft, ventral part of the glans.
The lieutenant felt the situation getting rapidly out at hand. His half-hearted attempts to deflect her insidious blitzing a ticklish affair at best got him nowhere, for the girl did not let go of her fascinating bauble. He was just passing another truck and was abreast of it when she suddenly went buccal on him, her mouth greedily moving over the glans in rhythmical though abortive little lunges, as if trying to bite off the stem of some big, ovoid fruit, but never quite managing it. Still not quite used to her brazen ways, he cut back into the right lane abruptly a powerful, indignant bellow from the horn of the truck followed the Mercedes as it accelerated in a blaze of speed, the lieutenant mashing the gas pedal flat against the floorboard.
Just off the autobahn, parked in an abandoned limestone quarry, a big, black Ford sedan was parked, its engine idling. An American M.P. and a German policeman had finished rigging up a speed trap here, having picked the quarry as a good site for their deceitful job. They were well within the speed limit zone they had been ordered to patrol, and their car was well concealed from the traffic the speed of which they were to check.
The M.P. a squat, fat man with a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves was slowly lumbering back toward the big Ford when a thunderous wave of sound rocked him and broke on the splintered rock of the quarry. He stopped and looked up at the sky, thinking that an Army Piper had buzzed the highway. But he saw nothing up there.
“What the hell was that?’ he shouted to his German colleague, who was coming toward him on the double.
“Mensch, das war kein Flugzeug das war ein Mercedes! ” the German shouted back, reverting to type in his enthusiasm.
The sergeant, who had been chewed out that morning by the provost marshal for inefficiency quickly saw a chance to redeem himself
“Let’s get him, buddy,” he said, classically terse in the lingo of his profession. Together they got into the Ford and, bouncing over the short stretch of rocky ground separating them from the highway, lumbered onto it. Their supercharged engine soon had them closing in on the Mercedes with a wailing siren.
When the girl took her teasing mouth away from his penis, the lieutenant also took his foot off the accelerator and started vigorously to pump the brake.
”I’m going to drop you off right now,” he said to her. “before you get me in one hell of a mess.”
“Oh, come on, Tiny,” she petulantly complained while grabbing a firmer hold of his erect member with both hands. “You were going to give me the inside dope, remember?”
It was then that he heard the siren. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the big Ford, looking disconcertingly stateside and approaching at a brisk clip. He remembered, in a short moment illumined by fear, a beating he had once got in Gotham.
“Christ on a crutch!” he whispered evenly to himself. “The military police. I’ll be in a mess for sure if those bastards catch me now.” He had stopped braking and was flat-mashing the accelerator again, this time with cold determination. They’ll never be able to get me, he thought I’m driving quality. His eyes jumped from the road in front of him to the rear-view mirror and back again, intent on the distance between the two cars. Slowly, he began to pull away from the Ford. There was no traffic ahead of him, and the Mercedes, wide open, streaked down the highway like a meteor.
“Oh, Tiny, you are going to give it to me,” the girl breathed thankfully. Then her voice became peevish. “About time, too, I’d say. Just the least bit of diddling now, and I’d faint dead away.”
There was a sudden, urgent rustling of clothing beside him. She was getting out of her slacks, and the lieutenant got a glimpse of her luscious, Venusian thighs as she wriggled and squirmed in her seat. Her black, lace-frilled G-string soon went the way of her slacks, and this time his eyes left the road to stare in open and reckless fascination at the golden fleece that covered her softly rounded belly like some rich and exotic rug. The lieutenant was lost now, unless he stopped the car, and that taking a frantic look in the rearview mirror he couldn’t do. The Ford was still there, steadily and undeniably there.
Without further ado, she grasped him by his shoulders and straddled him in a deft, sidewise motion. Her mouth was utterly lascivious now, her eyes glazed and glowing with an amethyst color. Resting her knees on the leather upholstery of the bucket seat in which he was sitting, she raised herself slightly and passed her left hand under her thigh to fumble for his member, which was luxuriating in the munificence of her silky sporran. She soon found what she was looking for and clasped it avariciously, bending it backwards until the blunt tip of it touched the mouth of her vagina that slavered in hot anticipation, and bearing down when she felt its scintillating kiss. She was poised for an instant on the extremity of his unbending erection, her knees lifting from the seat ever so slightly. The lips of her vagina, although well lubricated, widened but slowly around his glans. But then its full thickness had been introduced, and with a sudden, wuthering groan she sank in to the hilt. Then she became like a thing possessed. She sank her teeth into his throat and shook her head in terrier-like ferocity, moaning and clawing at his back, all the while thrusting her loins up and down. up and down, rhythmically, on his well-oiled penis, slick and shiny now like some great, untiring plunger.
In the dumb, peristaltic bliss that rapidly descended on him, the lieutenant but dimly saw the road before him shapes loomed up and flitted by on all sides, squealing and hooting cacophonously. He did his level best to keep the car on the road, but gravel-blind with passion now his level best was, inevitably, a perilously devious course. And when at last the enfeebled reckoning of his mind was totally extinguished, leaving him awash in the dark, pulsating ecstasy of the universe, the car slewed across the highway in long, shuddering arcs, leaving utter, bitter confusion in its wake. It was only gradually that it settled into a straightaway but without slackening its speed.
About two miles behind the Mercedes and incredulously watching its careening course, the M.P. softly swore.
“We’ll never get that bastard, buddy. He’s just too goddam fast for us.”
“Yes! Yes!” the German excitedly agreed. “A Mercedes is…is…Schnell.”
The M.P. gave him a slow-burn look of disgust and got his eyes front and center just in time to see the Mercedes disappear below a dip in the highway. When he in his turn crested it, he knew that he’d have to give up the chase. Before him, there was a road fork with its two branches disappearing after a short distance in the open into a wooded area. The Mercedes was nowhere in sight.
The lieutenant would never know how he’d got into the narrow dirt road on which he found himself when he had floated back up to the ruffled surface of cerebral life. The girl beside him, fully dressed again, was coolly tincturing her lips. She gave him a bright smile when she had finished, swung the car door open and climbed out, taking the rucksack with her.
“Well, thanks a lot for the ride, Tiny,” she said, “and for the low-down on Dixie. Boy, talk about authenticity…” Her voice trailed off in candid admiration.
”I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong slant on things,” the lieutenant sadly answered.
But the girl was already striding away from the car. “Good-bye, now!” she called and waved at him. ”I’ll see you around, Tiny.”
“Yeah,” he said, wearily lifting his arm. “Sure. I’ll see you around.”
But he didn’t sound so sure about it.
There is a special glee in discovering that a pornographic book has been written by, or is attributed to, a famous person. This pleasure goes beyond that found in tabloid headlines and “inside journalism” TV shows that daily entertain us with stories of the marital infidelities, illegitimate offspring, current bed mates and sexual peculiarities of our favorite celebrities. Gossip, based on the amount of time people spend reading, listening to and engaging in it, must be the world’s favorite pastime, save for sex. Tell-all autobiographies and scandal-stirring biographies are the order of the day the public feels cheated if there isn’t some sort of illicit sex to be confessed.
Uncovering anonymous authorship of erotica is different from all this gossipy type of intrigue. It’s more akin to finding X-rated pictures of current celebrities for example, the Sylvester Stallone skin flick, the porno shots of Barbara Payton with Franchot Tone and Tom Neal, the explicit photos of former Miss America Vanessa Williams, or the sans culotte snaps of Carmen Miranda. Even unsubstantiated reports of celebrities participating in pornography garner interest. People still wonder if Chuck Connors and Marilyn Monroe really did star in stag films nearly forty years ago.
Time was that such secret discoveries were the stuff of scandal, blackmail and social ostracism. Ken Anger’s book, Hollywood Babylon, documented just this in pre-sexual revolution America. Today, however, there is a different attitude. Many authors freely admit that they write sexually explicit material, either by doing so under their real names or by revealing their pseudonyms. One such is Anne Rice, who authored her S/M Beauty trilogy under the name of A.N. Roquelaure. Where authors or their families or estates formerly sued for libel when accused of having penned an erotic piece, they now sue for the royalties instead! The Henry Miller estate was happy to accept payment for allowing his byline to be used on the work Opus Pistorum which authorship Miller denied during his lifetime . And currently, in Europe, the estate of Felix Salten, author of the classic story for children, Bambi, is trying to collect money for editions of Josephine Mutzenbacher, a pornographic novel that has long been attributed to Salten.
Which brings us to this month’s Book Bonus, an excerpt from the novel, Teleny, and its presumed author, the celebrated Oscar Wilde. Since its first publication, in 1893, the book has been attributed to this flamboyant fin de si cle dandy and bon vivant. Famous as he was for his bon mots, novels and plays eg., Salom , The Importance of Being Earnest and The Picture of Dorian Gray , he was equally infamous as a convicted sodomite. His imprisonment in 1895 destroyed his health and brilliant career. Notwithstanding all the researches into Wilde’s life and work, it has still not been definitely ascertained whether or not he actually wrote Teleny. The rumor that he did has persisted for nearly a century, however.
Teleny, or The Reverse of the Medal: A Physiological Romance of Today, is a haunting, disturbing novel of male homosexual love and yearning. Set in Paris, the story’s narrator, Camille Des Grieux, the cultured and effete scion of an upper-crust family, falls madly in love with Ren Teleny, a handsome pianist, currently the rage of the town. The story unfolds in the form of a clinical psychosexual history, elicited from Des Grieux by an anonymous, almost phantom, “overnarrator.” Much as a hired psychiatrist would do it, he induces Des Grieux to tell his tale without sparing any of his thoughts, emotions and fantasies that attended and fueled his ill-fated love affair. As the plot unfolds, Des Grieux recalls his early sexual development, his deep love for his mother, his confused distaste for women and his early fumbling and failed heterosexual attempts. He recounts the intense lust that had seized him when he’d first laid eyes on Teleny, and the emotions that had controlled him as he’d voyeuristically spied on the bisexual artist, and that finally had led him in a tragic physical relationship that violated contemporary Victorian morality.
The writing in Teleny is decidedly uneven. Classical, biblical and literary allusions are jumbled together. Parts of the book display delicate and graceful language and imagery. Other parts are strong narrative descriptions of heterosexual activity, while still others empathetically portray the anguish and repressed yearnings of a tortured homosexual whose soul is screaming for release. Finally, there are poignant and turbulent scenes of homosexual sex. Over all else, however, is an air of smothering depression, a florid ennui. Teleny manifests little of the style and language of Oscar Wilde: Why, then, the persistent attribution?
The story of Wilde’s participation in the creation of this novel has been known since 1934, when there appeared a French translation, with an introduction by Charles Hirsch. Hirsch had been a bookseller in London in the 1890s. Among his customers back then was Oscar Wilde, who had the bookseller obtain pornographic novels for him from France. Wilde one day left a bundle with Hirsch, together with instructions that it was to be given to a man who would ask for it and present Wilde’s calling card. After this form of exchange had occurred several times more, Hirsch examined the contents of one of the bundles. He discovered a manuscript, written in several different hands, with many emendations and heavy editing. The story concerned homosexual love among London’s arts set. When the final section of the manuscript had been picked up, Hirsch thought no more of it until its publication in 1893. Hirsch then found that the text had been greatly changed from the version he remembered. The prologue was missing, for one thing, and the characters’ names and backgrounds were altered, as was the locale from London to Paris. Years later, one of the covert publishers of the first edition, Leonard Smithers, confessed to having made the changes in order to avoid scandalizing British readers. The copublisher, H.S. Nichols, reissued the same text in 1906, and it was not until the 1934 French edition, adapted directly from the original manuscript, that the world could read Teleny as the author or authors had fashioned it in the first place.
Hirsch, who had visited Wilde’s house, wrote that several interiors described in Teleny closely matched Wilde’s personal living quarters. Accordingly, we may safely infer that, if Wilde didn’t write any of the novel, at least he played a role, actively or passively, in its production, and he may have acted as the chief editor who tied together and structured the various episodes into a single novel.
Wilde is certainly the character model for Teleny. As was Wilde, Teleny is a narcissistic artist, a flamboyant bisexual, and the object of a confused younger man’s mad desire. The character Des Grieux seems based on Wilde’s lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, who may have written parts of Teleny as a declaration of his affections, or as a psychological catharsis, perhaps at the urging of the likes of Havelock Ellis, the great turn-of-the-century sex psychologist himself accused of writing Suburban Souls, an erotic novel of male masochistic inclination .
Teleny is neither greater nor lesser literature for its author’s true identity. It is a genuine testament to human emotion and homosexuality in Victorian England. Here, then, is the scene in which Des Grieux espies his beloved in the company of a lady and hallucinates about what would happen. C.J. Scheiner, M.D.
“I suffered. My thoughts, night and day, were with him. My brain was always aglow my blood was overheated my body ever shivering with excitement. I daily read all the newspapers to see what they said about him and whenever his name met my eyes, the paper shook in my trembling hands. If anybody mentioned his name, I blushed and then grew pale.
“I remember what a shock of pleasure, not unmingled with jealousy, I felt when for the first time I saw his likeness in a window amongst those of other celebrities. I went and bought it at once, not simply to treasure and dote upon it, but also that other people might not look at it.”
“What! You were so very jealous?”
“Foolishly so. Unseen and at a distance, I used to follow him about after every concert he played.
“Usually he was alone. Once, however, I saw him enter a cab waiting at the back door of the theater. It had seemed to me as if someone else was within the vehicle a woman, if I had not been mistaken. I hailed another cab and followed them. Their carriage stopped at Teleny’s house. I at once bade my Jehu do the same.
“I saw Teleny alight and offer his hand to a lady, thickly veiled, who tripped out of the carriage and darted into the open doorway. The cab then went off.
“I bade my driver wait there the whole night. At dawn, the carriage of the evening before came and stopped. My driver looked up. A few minutes afterwards the door was again opened. The lady hurried out and was handed into her carriage by her lover. I followed her and stopped where she alighted.
“A few days afterwards I knew whom she was.”
“And who was she?”
“She was a lady of an unblemished reputation with whom Teleny had played some duets.
“In the cab that night, my mind was so intently fixed upon Teleny that my inward self seemed to disintegrate itself from my body and to follow like his own shadow the man I loved. I unconsciously threw myself into a kind of trance, and I had a most vivid hallucination, which, strange as it might appear, coincided with all that my friend did and felt.
“For instance, as soon as the door was shut behind them, the lady caught Teleny in her arms and gave him a long kiss. Their entrance would have lasted several seconds more, had Teleny not lost his breath.
“You smile. Yes, I suppose you yourself are aware how easily people lose their breath in kissing, when the lips do not feel that blissful intoxicating lust in all its intensity. She would have given him another kiss, but Teleny whispered to her: ‘Let us go up to my room. There we shall be far safer than here.’
“Soon they were in his apartment.
“She looked timidly around, and seeing herself in that young man’s room alone with him, she blushed ashamedly.
“‘Oh’ Ren ,’ said she. ‘What must you think of me?’
“‘That you love me dearly,’ quoth he. ‘Do you not?’
“‘Yes, indeed. Not wisely, but too well.’
“Thereupon, taking off her wrappers, she clasped her lover in her arms, showering her warm kisses on his head, his eyes, his cheeks and then upon his mouth. That mouth I so longed to kiss!
“With lips pressed together, she remained for some time inhaling his breath, and almost frightened at her boldness she touched his lips with the tip of her tongue. Then, taking courage, soon afterwards she slipped it in his mouth, and then, after a while, she thrust it in and out, as if she were enticing him to try the act of nature by it. She was so convulsed with lust by this kiss that she had to clasp herself to him in order not to fall, for her knees were almost giving way beneath her. At last, taking his right hand, after squeezing it hesitatingly for a moment, she placed it upon her breasts, giving him her nipple to pinch, and, as he did so, the pleasure she felt was so great that she was swooning away for joy.
“‘Oh, Teleny!’ said she. ‘I can’t! I can’t anymore.’
“And she rubbed herself against him, protruding her middle parts against his.”
“Well, jealous as I was, I could not help feeling how different his manner was now from the rapturous way with which he had clung to me that evening, when he had taken the bunch of heliotrope from his buttonhole and had put it in mine.
“He accepted rather than returned her caresses. Anyhow, she seemed pleased, for she thought him shy.
“She was now hanging on him. Her dainty, bejeweled fingers were playing with his curly hair and patting his neck.
“He was squeezing her breasts and lightly fingering her nipples.
“She gazed deep into his eyes, and then sighed.
“‘You do not love me,’ at last she said. ‘I can see it in your eyes. You are not thinking of me, but of somebody else.’
“And it was true. At that moment he was thinking of me fondly, longingly. And then, as he did so, he got more excited, and he caught her in his arms and hugged and kissed her with far more eagerness than he had hitherto done nay, he began to suck her tongue as if it had been mine, and to thrust his own into her mouth.
“After a few moments of rapture, she stopped to take breath. ‘Yes, I am wrong. You love me. I see it now. You do not despise me because I am here, do you?’
“‘Ah! If you could only read in my heart and see how madly I love you, darling!’
“And she looked at him with longing, passionate eyes. ‘Still you think me light, don’t you? I am an adulteress!’
“And thereupon she shuddered and hid her face in her hands.
“He looked at her for a moment pitifully then he took down her hands gently and kissed her.
“‘You do not know how I have tried to resist you, but I could not. I am on fire. I cannot help myself,’ said she, lifting up her head defiantly as if she were facing the whole world. ‘Here I am. Do with me what you like, only tell me that you love no other woman but me. Swear it!’
“‘I swear,’ said he, languidly, ‘that I love no other woman.’
“She did not understand the meaning of his words.
“‘But tell it to me again. Say it often. It is so sweet to hear it repeated,’ said she with passionate eagerness.
“‘I assure you that I have never cared for any woman so much as I do for you.’
“‘Cared?’ said she, disappointed.
“‘Loved, I mean.’
“‘And you can swear it?’
“‘On the cross, if you like,’ added he, smiling.
“‘And you do not think badly of me because I am here? Well, you are the only one for whom I have ever been unfaithful to my husband, though God knows if he be faithful to me. Still, my love does not atone for my sin, does it?’
“Teleny did not give her any answer for an instant. He looked at her with dreamy eyes, then shuddered as if awaking from a trance.
“‘Sin,’ he said, ‘is the only thing worth living for.’
“She looked at him, rather astonished, but then she answered: ‘Well, yes, you are perhaps right. It is so. The fruit of the forbidden tree was pleasant to the sight, to the taste and to the smell.’
“They sat down on a divan. When they were clasped again in each other’s arms, he slipped his hand somewhat timidly and almost unwillingly under her skirt.
“She caught hold of his hand.
“‘No, Ren , I beg of you! Could we not love each other with a platonic love? Is that not enough?’
“‘Is it enough for you?’ said he, almost superciliously.
“She pressed her lips again upon his and almost relinquished her grasp. The hand went stealthily up, but the legs, closely pressed together, prevented it from slipping between them and thus reaching the higher story. It crept slowly up, nevertheless, caressing the thighs through the fine linen underclothing, and thus, by stolen marches, it reached its aim. The hand then slipped between the opening of the drawers and began to feel the soft skin. She tried to stop him.
“‘No, no!’ said she. ‘Please, don’t! You are tickling me!’
“He then took courage and plunged his fingers boldly into the fine curly locks of the fleece that covered all her middle parts.
“She continued to hold her thighs tightly closed together, especially when the naughty fingers began to graze the edge of the moist lips. At that touch, however, her strength gave way. The nerves relaxed and allowed the tip of a finger to worm its way within the slit nay, the tiny berry protruded out to welcome it.
“After a few moments she breathed more strongly. She encircled his breast with her arms, kissed him and then hid her head on his shoulder. ‘Oh, what a rapture I feel!” she cried. ‘What a magnetic fluid you possess to make me feel as I do!’
“He did not give her any answer. Unbuttoning his trousers, he took hold of her dainty little hand, introducing it within the gap. She soon boldly caught hold of his phallus, now stiff and hard, moving lustily by its own inward strength.
“After a few moments of pleasant manipulation, their lips pressed together, he lightly pressed her down on the couch and pulled up her skirt, without for a moment taking his tongue out of her mouth or stopping his tickling of her tingling clitoris, already wet with its own tears. Then he got his legs between her thighs. That her excitement increased could be plainly seen by the shivering of the lips, which parted of themselves to give entrance to the little blind god of love.
“With one thrust he introduced himself within the precincts of love’s temple with another, the rod was halfway in with the third, he reached the very bottom of the den of pleasure. Her flesh was not only firm but she was so tight that he was fairly clasped and sucked by those pulpy lips.
“After a few seconds of this, he began to breathe strongly to pant. The milky fluid that had for days accumulated itself now rushed out in thick jets, coursing into her very womb. She showed her hysteric enjoyment by her screams, her tears, her sighs. Finally, all strength gave way arms and legs stiffened themselves she fell lifeless on the couch.
“He soon recovered his strength and rose. She was then recalled to her senses, but only to melt into a flood of tears.
“A bumper of champagne brought them both, however, to a less gloomy sense of life. A few partridge sandwiches, some lobster patties, a caviar salad with a few more glasses of champagne, together with many marrons glac s and a punch made of maraschino, pineapple juice and whiskey, drunk out of the same goblet, soon dispelled their gloominess.
“‘Why should we not put ourselves at our ease, my dear?’ said he. ‘I’ll set you the example, shall I?’
“‘By all means.’
“Thereupon Teleny took off his white tie, that uncomfortable useless appendage invented to torture mankind, and then his coat and waistcoat, and he remained only in his shirt and trousers.
“‘Now, my dear, allow me to act as your maid.’
“The beautiful woman at first refused, but yielded after some kisses, and, little by little, nothing was left of all her clothing but an almost transparent crepe de chine chemise, dark steel-blue silk stockings, and satin slippers.
“Teleny covered her bare neck and arms with kisses. This little titillation was felt all over her body, and the slit between her legs opened again in such a way that the delicate little clitoris, like a red hawthorn berry, peeped out as if to see what was going on. He held her for a moment crushed against his chest, and his merle as the Italians call it flying out of his cage, he thrust it into the opening ready to receive it. He stretched her out on the panther rug at his feet, without unclasping her.
“All sense of shyness was now overcome. He pulled off his clothes and pressed down with all his strength. She to receive his instrument far deep in her sheath clasped him with her legs so that he could hardly move. He was, therefore, only able to rub himself against her, but that was more than enough, for after a few violent shakes of their buttocks, legs pressed and breasts crushed, the burning liquid which he injected within her body gave her a spasmodic pleasure, and she fell senseless on the pantherskin whilst he rolled off of her and lay motionless by her side.
“Till then, I felt that my image had always been present before his eyes, although he was enjoying this handsome woman, but now the pleasure she had given him had made him quite forget me. I therefore hated him.
“What right had he to love anybody but myself? Did I love a single being in this world as I loved him? Could I feel pleasure with anyone else?
“No, my love was not a maudlin sentimentality. It was the maddening passion that overpowers the body and shatters the brain! If he could love women, why did he then make love to me, obliging me to love him, making me a contemptible being in my own eyes?
“In the paroxysm of my excitement, I writhed. I dug my nails into my flesh I cried out with jealousy and shame.
“This state of things lasted for a few moments, and then I began to wonder what he was doing, and the fit of hallucination came over me again. I saw him awakening from the slumber into which he had fallen when overpowered by enjoyment.
“As he awoke, he looked at her. Now I was able to see her plainly, for I believe that she was only visible to me through his medium.”
“But you fell asleep and dreamt all this whilst you were in the cab, did you not?”
“Oh, no! All happened as I am telling you. I related my whole vision to him some time afterwards, and he acknowledged that everything had occurred exactly as I had seen it.”
“But how could this be?”
“There was, as I told you before, a strong transmission of thoughts between us. This is by no means a remarkable coincidence. You smile and look incredulous. Well, follow the doings of the Psychical Society, and this vision will certainly not astonish you anymore.”
“Well, never mind. Go on.”
“As Teleny awoke, he looked at his mistress lying at his side.
“She was as sound asleep as anyone would be after a banquet, intoxicated by strong drink. It was the heavy sleep of lusty life.
“The breasts as if swollen with milk stood up, and the erect nipples seemed to be asking for those caresses she was so fond of over all her body there was a shivering of insatiable desire.
“Her thighs were bare, and the thick curly hair that covered her middle parts, as black as jet, was sprinkled over with pearly drops of milky dew.
“Such a sight would have awakened an eager, irrepressible desire in Joseph himself, the only chaste Israelite of whom we have ever heard, and yet Teleny, leaning on his elbow, was gazing at her with all the loathsomeness we feel when we look at a kitchen table covered with the offal of the meat, the hashed scraps, the dregs of the wines which have supplied the banquet that has just glutted us.
“I felt again that he did not love her, but me, though she had made him for a few moments forget me.
“She seemed to feel his cold glances upon her, for she shivered and, thinking she was asleep in bed, she tried to cover herself up, and her hand, fumbling for the sheet, pulled up her chemise, only uncovering herself more by that action. She woke as she did so, and caught Teleny’s reproachful glances.
“She looked around, frightened. She tried to cover herself as much as she could and then, entwining one of her arms found the young man’s neck
“‘Do not look at me like that,’ she said. ‘Am I so loathsome to you? Oh! I see it. You despise me.’ And her eyes filled with tears. ‘You are right. Why did I yield? Why did I not resist the love that was torturing me? Alas! It was I who sought you, who made love to you, and now you feel for me nothing but disgust. Tell me, is it so? You love another woman! No! Tell me you don’t!’
“‘I don’t,’ said Teleny, earnestly.
“‘Yes, but swear.’
“‘I have already sworn before, or at least offered to do so. What is the use of swearing if you don’t believe me?’
“Though all lust was gone, Teleny felt a heartfelt pity for that handsome young woman, who, maddened by love for him, had put into jeopardy her whole existence to throw herself into his arms.
“Who is the man that is not flattered by the love he inspires in a high-born, wealthy and handsome young woman who forgets her marriage to enjoy a few moments’ bliss in his arms? But then, why do women love men who care so little for them?
“Teleny did his best to comfort her, to tell her over and over again that he cared for no other woman, to assure her that he would be eternally faithful to her for her sacrifice, but pity is not love, nor is affection the eagerness of desire.
“Nature was more than satisfied her beauty had lost all its attraction. They kissed again and again. He languidly passed his hands all over her body, from the nape of the neck to the deep dent between those round hills that seemed covered with fallen snow, giving her a most delightful sensation as he did so. He caressed her breasts, suckled and bit the tiny protruding nipples, whilst his fingers were often thrust far within the warm flesh hidden under that mass of jet-black hair. She glowed, she breathed, she shivered with pleasure, but Teleny, though performing his work with masterly skill, remained cold at her side.
“‘No, I see that you don’t love me, for it is not possible that you a young man ‘
“She did not finish. Teleny felt the sting of her reproaches but remained passive, for the phallus is not stiffened by taunts.
“She took the lifeless object in her delicate fingers. She rubbed and manipulated it. She even rolled it between her two soft hands. It remained like a piece of dough. She sighed as piteously as Ovid’s mistress must have done on a like occasion. She did like this woman did some hundreds of years before. She bent down and took the tip of that inert piece of flesh between her lips the pulpy lips which looked like a tiny apricot, so round, sappy and luscious. Soon it was all in her mouth, and she sucked it with much evident pleasure. As it went in and out, she tickled the prepuce with her expert tongue.
“The phallus, though somewhat harder, remained limp and nerveless.
“You know, our ignorant forefathers believed in the practice called nouer les aiguillettes that is, rendering the male incapable of performing the pleasant work for which nature has destined him. We, the enlightened generation, have discarded such gross superstitions, and still our ignorant forefathers were sometimes right.”
“What! You do not mean to say that you believe in such tomfoolery?”
“It might be tomfoolery, as you say, but still it is a fact. Hypnotize a person and then you will see if you can get the mastery over him or not.”
“Still, you had not hypnotized Teleny?”
“No, but our natures seemed to be bound to one another by a secret affinity.
“At that moment I felt a secret shame for Teleny Not being able to understand the working of his brain, she seemed to regard him in the light of a young cock that, having crowed lustily once or twice at early dawn, has strained his neck to such a pitch that he can only emit hoarse, feeble, gurgling sounds out of it after that.
“Moreover, I almost felt sorry for that woman, and I thought if I were only in her place, how disappointed I should be. And I sighed, repeating almost audibly: ‘Were I but in her stead.’
“The image which had formed itself within my mind so vividly was all at once reverberated within Ren ‘s brain, and he thought if instead of this lady’s mouth, those lips were my lips. And his phallus at once stiffened and awoke into life. The glands swelled with blood. Not only an erection took place, but it almost ejaculated. The countess for she was a countess was herself surprised at this sudden change, and stopped, for she had now obtained what she wanted.
“Teleny, however, began to fear that if he had his mistress’s face before his eyes, my image might entirely vanish, and that beautiful as she was he would never be able to accomplish his work to the end. So he began by covering her with kisses: then deftly turned her over. She yielded without understanding what was required of her. He bent her pliant body on her knees, so that she presented a most beautiful sight to his view.
“This splendid sight ravished him to such an extent that his hitherto limp tool acquired its full size and stiffness, and in its lusty vigor leapt in such a way that it knocked against his navel. Placing himself between her legs, he tried to introduce the glans within the aperture of her two lips, now thick and swollen by dint of much rubbing.
“Wide apart as her legs were, he first had to open the lips with his fingers on account of the mass of bushy hair that grew all around them, for now the tiny curls had entangled themselves together like tendrils, as if to bar the entrance. Therefore, when he had brushed the hair aside, he pressed his tool in it, but the turgid dry flesh arrested him. The clitoris, thus pressed, danced with delight, so that he took it in his hand and rubbed and shook it softly and gently on the top part of her lips.
“She began to shake and to rub herself with delight. She groaned, she sobbed hysterically, and when he felt himself bathed with delicious tears, he thrust his instrument far within her body, clasping her tightly around the neck. So, after a few bold strokes, he managed to get in the whole of the rod down to the very root of the column, crushing his hair against hers, so far in the utmost recesses of the womb that it gave her a pleasurable pain as it touched the neck of the vagina.
“For about ten minutes which to her felt like an eternity she continued panting, throbbing, gasping, groaning, shrieking, roaring, laughing and crying in the vehemence of her delight.
“‘Oh! Oh! I am feeling it again! In in quick quicker! There! There! Enough! Stop!”
“But he did not listen to her, and he went on plunging and replunging with increasing vigor. Having vainly begged for a truce, she began to move again with renewed life.
“Having her from behind, his whole thoughts were thus concentrated upon me, and the tightness of the orifice in which the penis was sheathed, added to the titillation produced by the lips of the womb, gave him such an overpowering sensation that he redoubled his strength and shoved his instrument with such mighty strokes that the frail woman shook under the repeated thumps. Her knees were almost giving way under the force he displayed. When again, all at once, the floodgates of the seminal ducts were open and he squirted a jet of molten liquid into the innermost recesses of her womb.
“A moment of delirium followed. The contraction of her muscles gripped him and sucked him up eagerly, greedily, and after a short spasmodic convulsion, they both fell senseless side by side, still tightly wedged together.
“And so it ended.”