Eroticon 2
EROTICON 2
Introduced and edited by
J-P SPENCER
Eroticon 2 published in 1986 & 2001 by Nexus. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera eBooks.
ePub ISBN 9781780800400
mobi ISBN 9781780800417
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.
New authors are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright J-P Spencer. The right of J-P Spencer to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Contents
Introduction
The Lascivious Monk
Fanny Hill's Daughter
Maudie
Pauline the Prima Donna
A Man with a Maid
My Conversion
The House of Borgia
The Joys of Lolotte
The Memoirs of Madame Madelaine
Randiana
The Loves of Lord Roxboro
My Secret Life
Introduction
We can put names to very few of the authors responsible for the excerpts in this anthology of erotic writing. Ironically, those that are attributable are the most venerable in the collection. It is as if age, as in other spheres of activity, has lent respectability and, unlike their later counterparts, the old pornographers are content to stand up and be counted.
The Lascivious Monk, also known as The Story of Dom B..., first appeared in Paris at the beginning of 1741. It is a thoroughly entertaining and skilful sexual satire aimed squarely at the Church, and its success launched an entire genre of similar works. Its cheerful obscenity and anti-clerical content created a furore on publication. As proof of its subversive nature, the authorities launched an investigation which lasted four months and, apart from small fry such as printers and booksellers, pointed the finger at a nobleman and, appropriately, a priest. The real author however, Jean-Charles Gervaise de Larouche, was never brought to account. After the fuss surrounding the publication had subsided, he resumed his career as a lawyer and practised at the Parlement de Paris. Born in Amiens in 1715, he died in 1782, reputedly of grief following the bankruptcy of a nobleman to whom he had made over all his property in return for a life annuity.
A great deal could, and indeed has been, said about the author of My Conversion or The Libertine of Quality. Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, Comte de Mirabeau (1749-91) was a libertine of repute himself, who emerged as the greatest orator of the French Revolution and died a hero of the people. My Conversion was written during one of his many periods of incarceration invoked by his tyrannical father under the iniquitous system of lettres de cachet. At the time, in early 1780, Mirabeau had been imprisoned in the Chateau of Vincennes for nearly three years, he was separated from his beloved mistress and their child (whom he had never seen) and, despite his many talents, his life to date had been one of frustration and rejection. As a consequence, the book is as much an act of revenge on the establishment which had turned its back on him, as a work of titillation. My Conversion was first published in 1783 and, notwithstanding frequent persecution by the authorities, it has survived many editions.
Andrea de Nercia (1739-1800), the author of The Pleasures of Lolotte or Mon Noviciat, is a similarly larger than life character from eighteenth-century France. The son of a Dijon lawyer, his career took many turns; he was, variously, a linguist, soldier, playwright, novelist, composer, librarian and spy. This last activity had him dogging the footsteps of Madame Buonaparte in Italy in 1797. Queen Marie-Caroline subsequently sent him on a secret mission to the Pope with the result that he was imprisoned in the Castel Sant Angelo in Rome. Though released at the turn of the century, his health was broken and he died in Naples in 1800. The Pleasures of Lolotte - in which the anti-clerical influence of previous works such as The Lascivious Monk and My Conversion can plainly be seen - was first published in Berlin in 1792.
The other selections included here encompass a wide variety of erotic writing, from the Victorian naughtiness of A Man with a Maid, which manages to be coy, silly and rude in equal degrees, to a pastiche of Cleland's Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure in Fanny Hill's Daughter, to Maudie, an item of Edwardian froth, enlivened by a bevy of flappers and some ripping period slang.
As in the first anthology in this series, further extracts have been taken from Pauline the Prima Donna, also known as The Memoirs of a German Singer, the (fictional) autobiography of the celebrated diva Wilhelmina Schroeder-Devrient (1804-60); The House of Borgia, by the pseudonymous Marcus Van Heller, a stalwart of the Olympia Press stable in the mid-195Os; and 'Walter's' notorious sexual diary, My Secret Life. This last is doubtless the most extraordinary account yet written of one man's amatory experiences. Published in a very limited edition circa 1890, it runs to eleven volumes. By no means all of this material is widely available and the selection printed here is from the less readily accessible portion. Much has been written about this unique book and all commentators are agreed that the events recounted represent the truth as the author saw it at the time. This can make for some bizarre reading as, for example, in the extract quoted here in which the ever-prurient Walter peeps at a man with a formidable penis:
Going to a round small mahogany table and taking the cloth off it, he thwacked and banged his prick on it, and a sound came as if the table had been hit with a stick - 'It does not hurt me,' he said.—I was never so astonished in my life.
Readers interested in learning more about this obsessive but fascinating work - and erotic writing in general - are recommended to turn to Gordon Grimley's edition of My Secret Life (Panther), Steven Marcus's The Other Victorians (Weidenfeld & Nicolson/Corgi) and Patrick J Kearney's A History of Erotic Literature.
This volume is only a sampler intended to provide an introduction to a little known world. The literature - of sexual imagination is a long and curious highway which follows many intriguing twists and turns. Erotican II invites the interested reader to survey just a few of the secret and mysterious landmarks along its fabulous route.
J-P Spencer
The Lascivious Monk
Translated from the French by Howard Nelson
Slowly we walked, not in the tree-lined paths but among the open garden beds where the rays of the sun were the hottest. The only protection Madame Dinville had was a little fan. I had nothing, but I suffered my tortures stoically. The Abbot was laughing at our foolishness, but he soon became discouraged after we went around several times. I still could not guess what Madame Dinville had in mind. Also, I could not understand how she was able to stand the burning heat which I was beginning to find unbearable. Little did I realize that rich reward I was to get for my faithful service.
Our stubbornness in continuing the walk soon bored the scoffing Abbot and he retired. When we were at the end of one of the paths, Madame Dinville led me into a pleasantly cool little arbor.
'Aren't we going to go on with our stroll?' I innocently asked.
'No, I think
I've had enough sun,' she replied. She regarded me searchingly to learn if I guessed the reason for the promenade, and she perceived that I had no idea of the blessing she was intending for me. She took my arms which she squeezed affectionately. Then, as if she were extremely tired, she rested her head on my shoulder and put her face so close to mine that I would have been a fool not to kiss. She made no objection.
'Oh, oh,' I thought to myself. 'So that's her game. Well, nobody will disturb us here.'
In truth, we were in a sort of labyrinth whose obscurity and turnings and windings would conceal us from the sharpest eyes.
Now she sat down under a bower on the grass. It was the ideal setting for the purpose I was sure she had in mind. Following her example, I seated myself at her side. She gave me a soulful look, squeezed my hand, and reclined on her back. Believing that the moment had come, I started to ready my weapon when all of a sudden she fell sound asleep. At first, I thought it was only drowsiness caused by the heat and that I could easily rouse her. But when she refused to wake up after repeated shakings, I was simple enough to believe in the genuineness of a slumber that I should have suspected because of its promptness and profundity.
'My usual luck,' I swore to myself. 'If she fell asleep after I had quenched my desires, I wouldn't mind, but to be so cruel at the moment when she had raised my hopes so high is unpardonable.'
I was inconsolable. There was sadness in my heart as I regarded her. She was dressed like the previous day, that is to say, with the diaphanous blouse which revealed her unbelievable breasts, that were so near and yet so far. As the strawberry-ripped orbs rose and fell, I longingly admired their whiteness and symmetry.
My desires were almost at the breaking point, and I felt the urge to wake her up, but I dismissed the desire for fear that she would get angry. She would have to awaken eventually, I reflected, but I could not resist the urge to put my hand on that seductive bosom.
'She is sleeping too soundly for her to awaken at my touch,' I said to myself, 'but if she does, the worst that she can do is scold me for my boldness.'
Extending a quivering hand to one of the inviting mounds, I kept an anxious eye on her face, ready to retreat at the first sign of life. But she slumbered peacefully on as I lifted her blouse up to her neck and let my fingers graze the satin-smooth contours. My hand was like a swallow skimming over the water, now and then dipping its wings in the waves.
Now I was emboldened to plant a tender kiss on one rose-bud. She still did not stir. Then the other was given the same treatment. Changing my position, I became even naughtier. I put my head under her skirt in order to penetrate into the obscure landscape of love, but I could not make out anything for her legs were crossed. If I could not see it, at least I was going to touch it. My hand slowly crept up the thigh until it reached the foot of the Venusberg. The tip of my finger was already at the entrance to the grotto. I had gone too far, I decided, but having reached this point, I was more miserable and frustrated than ever. I was so anxious to see what I was touching. Withdrawing the intruding hand, I sat up again and regarded the visage of my sleeping beauty. There was no change in her placid expression. It seemed that Morpheus had cast his most soporific poppies on her.
Did my eyes deceive me? Did one of her eyelids twitch? I felt a sense of near panic. I looked again, this time more closely. No, the eye I thought had momentarily opened was still tightly shut.
Reassured, I took new courage and began to gently lift up her skirt. She gave a slight start, and I was positive that I had awakened her. Quickly, I pulled the skirt back down. My heart was pounding as if I had narrowly escaped a disaster. I was terror-stricken as I sat again at her side and feasted my eyes on her admirable bosom. With relief, I saw that there was not a sign of returning life. She had just changed position, and what a delightful new position it was.
Her thighs were now uncrossed. When she raised one knee, the skirt fell on her stomach, revealing her hirsute mound and cunt. The dazzling sight almost intoxicated me. Picture to yourself a rounded leg encased in a frivolous stocking held up by a dainty garter, a tiny foot in a saucy shoe, and thighs of alabaster. The carmine red cunt was surrounded by a ring of ebony black hair and it exuded a scent more heady than the rarest incense. Inserting my finger in the aperture, I tickled it a little. At this, she opened her legs still wider. Then I put my mouth to it, trying to sink my tongue to the very bottom. Words cannot describe the straining erection I had.
Nothing could stop me now. Fear, respect and caution were thrown to the winds. My passion was like a torrent, seeping away everything in its path. If she had been the Sultan's favourite, I would have fucked her in the presence of a hundred eunuchs armed with sharp scimitars. Stretching my body over her and supporting myself with my hands and knees so that my weight would not arouse her, my member gradually disappeared into the hole. The only part of me touching her was my prick which I gently pushed in and pulled out. The slow but regular cadence enhanced and prolonged my ineffable bliss.
Still carefully watching her face, I gently kissed her full lips from time to time.
But the raptures I was experiencing were so great that I forgot my caution and fell heavily on the lady, furiously hugging and embracing her.
The climax of my pleasure opened my eyes which had been shut since I had entered her, and I saw the transports of Madame Dinville, joys which I was no longer able to share. My somnolent friend had just clutched my buttocks with her hands, and raising hers which she convulsively wiggled, she dragged me down hard on her quivering body. I kissed her with the last of the passion I had left.
'My dear friend,' she moaned in a failing voice, 'push a little more. Don't leave me half way to my goal.'
I felt renewed vigour at her touching appeal and resumed my enjoyable task. After barely five or six strokes more, she really lost consciousness. For some unknown reason that excited me and I quickened my tempo. In a matter of seconds, I reached the peak again and fell into a state like that of my partner. When we revived, we showed our appreciation of each other with warm kisses and tight embraces.
With the fading of passion, I felt I had to withdraw, but I was embarrassed for I was unwilling for her to see the sorry condition my prick was in. I tried to hide it, but her eyes were fixed on me. When it was out, she grabbed it, took it into her mouth, and began to suck it.
'What were you trying to do, you silly boy?' she murmured. 'Were you ashamed to show me an instrument you know how to use so well? Did I conceal anything from you? Look! Here are my breasts. Look at them and fondle them as much as you want. Take those rosy tips in your mouth and put your hand on my cunt. Oh, that's wonderful! You have no idea of the pleasure you're giving me, you little rascal.'
Animated by the vivacity of her caresses, I responded with equal ardour. She marvelled at the dexterity of my finger as she rolled her eyes and breathed her sighs into my mouth.
My prick, having regained its pristine rigidity from her lips on it, wanted her more than ever. Before putting it in her again, I spread open her thighs to feast my eyes on that seat of delight. Often these preliminaries to pleasure are more piquant than pleasure itself. Is there anything more exquisite than to have a woman willing to assume any position your lascivious imagination can conjure? I experienced an ecstatic vertigo as I put my nose to that adorable cunt. I wished that all of me were a prick so that I could be completely engulfed in it. Desire begat even more violent desires.
Reveal a portion of your bosom to your lover, and he insists on seeing it all. Show him a little firm white breast, and he clamours to touch it. He is a dipsomaniac whose thirst increases as he drinks. Let him touch, and he demands to kiss it. Permit him to wander farther down, he commands that you let him put his prick there. His ingenious mind comes up with the most capricious fantasies, and he is not satisfied until he can carry them out on you.
The reader can imagine how long I was content nuzzling that appetizing aperture. It was a matter of seconds until I was again vigorously fucking
her. She eagerly responded with upward thrusts to match my powerful lunges. In order to get farther in, I had my hands on the cheeks of her derriere while she had her legs wrapped around my back. Our mouths, glued to each other, were two cunts being mutually fucked by two tongues. Finally came the ecstasy that lifted us to the heights and then annihilated us.
It has been said that potency is a gift of the gods, and although they had been more than generous with me, I was squandering my divine patrimony, and I had need of every drop of the heavenly largesse to emerge from the present engagement with honour.
It seemed that her desires were increasing in proportion to the loss of my powers. Only with the most libertine caresses was she able to turn my imminent retreat into still another victory. This she accomplished by getting on top of me, letting her full breasts dangle above my face and rubbing my failing virility with her cunt which seemed possessed of a life or its own.
'Now, I'm fucking you!' she joyously cried as she bounced up and down on me. Motionless, I let her do what she wanted with me. It was a delightful sensation, the first one I had ever enjoyed in that way. Now and then, she paused in her exertions to rain kisses on my face. Those lovely orbs swayed rhythmically above me in time with her repeated impaling of herself. When they came close to my mouth, I eagerly kissed or sucked the rose nipple. A streak of voluptuousness shuddering through my body announced the imminence of the supreme moment. Joining my transports to hers, I gushed just at the moment she did, and our juices mingled with the perspiration on our bellies.