Eroticon 2 Page 15

  Madly my tongue continues lashing away, while I grip her form to me in every part. As one being now, we writhe in our embrace. Another moment, and I can tell from the sudden stiffening of her body and the sharp contraction of her cunt that she is with me! Then, and not till then, do I feel that the real apex of my own crisis is at hand.

  Two long low moans go up from our tensely tangled form. First blinded, then entirely overcome, by the tremendous conflagration of sensations, I faint dead away - for long sublime moments of which, alas, I can give no report.

  My joy-clouded brain begins to clear. We lie quivering and twitching in each other's arms like persons mortally stricken; but in truth we are still swimming in head-over seas of bliss. We have survived the delicious danger, and the delirium and tumult of our senses subside.

  For a time we lie thus, breathless and happy, more languorously savouring the delightful afterpleasures of love. Our bodies relax, my thighs fall away from her head; Nanette's white naked form now rests upon me softly, her belly upon my breasts, a welcome blanket of gently palpitating flesh. Her cunt still lies upon my lips, but my tongue is withdrawn. As I open my eyes, till now closed in ecstasy, I can see that its folds are glowing with a more flaming vermilion than ever; but its so recently irritated membranes are now bathed and soothed by a generous flood of fine mucous. Through the vista of her still-widespread thighs and buttocks, I see the gas chandelier on the ceiling burning with what seems a dimmer flame. It is not my passion that is dimmer, however, for my mind is yet full of memories and desires for what is so recent; it is only that my eyes, their pupils contracting with languor, present the outer world thus dully in contrast to the brightness of sensation within. Oh, to lie with her forever! To sleep perhaps awhile, and then to awake to renewals of this subtle ecstasy!

  Nanette is the first to stir. Much to my regret she removes her beloved body from over me and automatically resumes her dress of shoes and black silk chemise. I proceed to follow suit, but she halts my progress, covering my breasts with a round of tender kisses.

  Then, full upon my mouth, still full of the dear moisture of her cunny, she places a luscious kiss.

  Alternately we suck each other's lips and tongues, exchanging the sweet secretions of our mouths. As myself, I find a deliciously wicked erotic stimulant the thought that I am thus drinking from her lips joint lubrications of our secret parts.

  Reluctantly she begins to help me on with clothes. Then suddenly, in a little flurry of passion, she falls to her knees as I sit on the edge of the bed and parting my thighs, she places upon the lips of my cunny what is meant as a grateful farewell kiss. Then, noting that it is still very wet, she compresses the lips together with her fingers, and leaning over it again, sucks away the moisture that she thus squeezes from it. Next, regretting the early completion of this pleasing task, she impulsively undoes her work by inserting her tongue and kissing it more moistly than ever.

  Still unable to tear herself away from this delicious part of me, she lingers on, saying good-bye again and again, fondling, kissing, admiring it, on her knees before me.

  'A pure sweet virgin cunt! How long it is since I've seen one of those! To think - it has never been touched by man. That dear velvety maiden membrane - let me run my tongue once more across its delicious smooth surface - while it's still there! And those unfledged, unstretched lips, how nicely they kiss me back! And your lovely little joy-button, so small and sensitive and undeveloped. Oh, I must nibble it off!'

  She suits the action to the word. It does not take a great deal of such delightful toying to reawaken my desires. My clitty stands up when spoken of with much flattery. Nor does the gentle nibbling of her small regular teeth tend to lessen its self-consciousness. Little ripples of pleasure begin spreading from my cunny to my spine - But why worry the patient reader with a new recounting of what has just gone before? Only the delicious act itself bears repetition, and not with my inadequate words of attempted description. Suffice it to say that whether she had originally so intended or not, she accepts my gentle invitation to continue when I place my hands about the back of her pretty head and hold her more snugly to my reawakened cunt.

  Scarcely a minute after she has begun, I come deliciously. But this climax I recognize as being just a part of my first thrill - a sort of warm wringing out of the remains of the earlier bacchanalia of pleasure - and so with continued importunities of my writhing hips, I wrap my thighs about her neck and shoulders and imprison her to a continuation of this delightful stimulation. Not at all unwilling, darling Nanette goes on, centering her dear labours of love exclusively upon my spongy little clitty for efficiency. I lie back on the bed and experience again her divine gamahuching. This time it takes a longer time for me to come - perhaps all of ten minutes - but, oh, dear reader, so delightful is the process of going to that 'come' that I am almost sorry when I arrive and it is ill over. No - I lie. That third thrilling orgasm, though thinner, as it were, and less pervading (perhaps because of the familiarity with the paths over which the sensation has so recently blazed its way) was even sharper and more violently enjoyable than both those that went before. It left me sobbing and moaning in an overwhelming agony of bliss that - well, I am glad that I promised not to describe it, so completely would it defy my pen.

  As I dressed, we exchanged our full names and became better acquainted in the more usual sense of the words. Also, we agreed to meet again in the early future.

  Downstairs, I found that my marvellous adventure had occupied scarcely half-an-hour by the clock. Charley was sitting about disconsolately, consuming scores of cigarettes, alone except for a woman of the house who was wooing him in vain. All the other boys had retired with their respective choices and had not yet come down.

  His eyes brightened when he spied me; but he was gloomy and sullen again when I sat down beside him.

  'What kept you up there so long? A joke's a joke; but not when it's carried too far. One would think you were really up to something. What were you doing?'

  'Oh - just chatting, to waste time. I didn't want to be the killjoy of the party and keep you from getting yourself a woman.'

  'But don't you see, Louise?' he said earnestly, covering my hand with his and looking at me intensely with his handsome, pleading eyes, now shadowed by deep anguish, 'don't you see that I want no woman but you? I'm waiting for you. And damn it, I've been faithful to you for more than this hour that you've been gone.'

  I blushed violently. My conscience was not clear.

  'Charley,' I said, 'I'm afraid I'm scarcely worthy of this, your deep affection and unshaken faithfulness.'

  He must have thought that he detected a note of sarcasm in my words, for he said roughly:

  'Never mind, baby. I'm waiting.'

  Randiana

  I found at the age of thirty that I was only on the threshold of mysteries far more entrancing. I had up to that time been a mere man of pleasure, whose ample fortune (for my father, who had grown rich, did not disinherit me when he died) sufficed to procure any of those amorous delights without which the world would be a blank to me.

  But further than the ordinary pleasures of the bed I had not penetrated.

  'The moment was, however, approaching when all these would sink into significance before those greater sensual joys which wholesome and well applied flagellation will always confer upon its devotees.'

  I quote the last sentence from a well-known author, but I'm far from agreeing with it in theory or principle.

  I was emerging one summer's evening from the Café Royal, in Regent Street, with De Vaux, a friend of long standing, when he nodded to a gentleman passing in a 'hansom' who at once stopped the cab, and got out.

  'Who is it?' I said, for I felt a sudden and inexplicable interest in his large lustrous eyes, eyes such as I have never before seen in any human being.

  'That is Father Peter, of St Martha of the Angels. He is a bircher, my boy, and one of the best in London.'

  At this moment we were joined by the
Father and a formal introduction took place.

  I had frequently seen admirable cartes of Father Peter, or rather, as he preferred to be called, Monsignor Peter, in the shop windows of the leading photographers, and at once accused myself of being a doll not to have recognized him at first sight.

  Descriptions are wearisome at the best, yet were I a clever novelist given to the art, I think I might even interest those of the sterner sex in Monsignor Peter, but although in the following paragraph I faithfully delineate him, I humbly ask his pardon if he should perchance in the years to come glance over these pages and think I have not painted his portrait in colours sufficiently glowing, for I must assure my readers that Father Peter is no imaginary Apollo, but one who in the present year of grace, 1883, lives, moves, eats, drinks, fucks, and flagellates with all the verve and dash he possessed at the date I met him first, now twenty-five years ago.

  Slightly above the middle height and about my own age, or possibly a year my senior, with finely chiselled features and exquisite profile, Father Peter was what the world would term an exceedingly handsome man. It is true that perfectionists have pronounced the mouth a trifle too sensual and the cheeks a thought too plump for a standard of perfection, but the women would have deemed otherwise for the grand dreamy Oriental eyes, which would have outrivaled those of Byron's Gazelle, made up for any shortcoming.

  The tonsure had been sparing in its dealings with his hair, which hung in thick but well-trimmed masses round a classic head, and as the slight summer breeze blew aside one lap of his long clerical coat, I noticed the elegant shape of his cods which, in spite of the tailor's art, would display their proportions to the evident admiration of one or two ladies who, pretending to look in at the windows of a draper near which we were standing seemed riveted to the spot, as the zephyrs revealed the tantalizing picture.

  'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Clinton,' said Father Peter, shaking me cordially by the hand. 'Any friend of Mr De Vaux is a friend of mine. May I ask if either of you have dined yet?'

  We replied in the negative.

  'Then in that case, unless you have something better to do, I shall be glad if you will join me at my own home. I dine at seven, and am already rather late. I feel half-famished and was proceeding to Kensington, where my humble quarters are, when the sight of De Vaux compelled me to discharge the cab. What say you?'

  'With all my heart,' replied De Vaux, and since I knew him to be a perfect sybarite at the table, and that his answer was based on a knowledge of Monsignor's resources, I readily followed suit.

  To hail a four-wheeler and get to the doors of Father Peter's handsome but somewhat secluded dwelling, which was not very far from the south end of the long walk in Kensington Gardens, did not occupy more than twenty minutes.

  Before many minutes he rejoined us, and leading the way, we followed him into one of the most lovely bijou salons it had ever been my lot to enter. There were seats for eight at the table, four of which were occupied, and the chef not waiting for his lord and master, had already sent up the soup.

  I was briefly introduced, and De Vaux, who knew them all, had shaken himself into his seat before I found time to properly note the appearance of my neighbours.

  Immediately on my left sat a complete counterpart of Monsignor himself, save that he was a much older man; his name, as casually mentioned to me, was Father Boniface, and although sparer in his proportions than Father Peter, his proclivities as a trencher-man belied his meagreness. He never missed a single course, and when anything particular tickled his gustatory sense, he had two or even more helpings.

  Next to him sat a little short apoplectic man, a Doctor of Medicine, who was more of an epicure.

  A sylph-like girl of sixteen occupied the next seat. Her fair hair, rather flaxen than golden-hued, hung in profusion down her back, while black lashes gave her violet eyes that shade which Greuze, the finest eye painter the world has ever seen, wept to think he could never exactly reproduce. I was charmed with her ladylike manner, her neatness of dress, virgin white, and above all, with the modest and unpretending way she replied to the questions put to her.

  If ever there was a maid at sixteen under the blue vault of heaven, she sits there, was my involuntary thought, to which I nearly gave verbal expression, but was fortunately saved from such a frightful lapse by the page who, placing some appetizing salmon and lobster sauce before me, dispelled for the nonce my half visionary condition.

  Monsignor P. sat near this young divinity, and ever and anon between the courses passed his soft white hands through her wavy hair.

  I must admit I didn't half like it, and began to feel a jealous pang, but the knowledge that it was only the caressing hand of a Father of the Romish Church quieted me.

  I was rapidly getting maudlin, and as I ate my salmon the smell of the lobster sauce suggested other thoughts till I found the tablecloth gradually rising, and I was obliged to drop my napkin on the floor to give myself the opportunity of adjusting my prick so that it would not be observed by the company.

  I have omitted to mention the charmer who was placed between De Vaux and Father Peter. She was a lady of far maturer years than the sylph, and might be, as near as one could judge in the pale incandescent light which the pure filtered gas shed round with voluptuous radiance, about twenty-seven. She was a strange contrast to Lucy, for so my sylph was called. Tall, and with a singularly clear complexion for a brunette, her bust was beautifully rounded with that fullness of contour which, just avoiding the gross, charms without disgusting. Madeline, in short was in every inch a woman to chain a lover to her side.

  I had patrolled the Continent in search of goods; I had overhauled every shape and make of cunt between Constantinople and Calcutta; but as I caught the liquid expressions of Madeline's large sensuous eyes, I confessed myself a fool.

  Here in Kensington, right under a London club-man's nose was the beau ideal I had vainly travelled ten thousand miles to find. She was sprightliness itself in conversation, and I could not sufficiently thank De Vaux for having introduced me into such an Eden.

  Lamb cutlets and cucumbers once more broke in upon my dream, and I was not at all sorry, for I found the violence of my thought had burst one of the buttons of my fly, a mishap I knew from past experience would be followed by the collapse of the others unless I turned my erratic brain wanderings into another channel, so that I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, absolutely afraid to gaze upon these two constellations again.

  'As I observed just now,' said the somewhat fussy little Doctor, 'cucumber or cowcumber, it matters not much which, if philologists differ in the pronunciation surely we may.'

  'The pronunciation,' said Father Peter, with a naive look at Madeline, 'is very immaterial, provided one does not eat too much of them. They are a dangerous plant, sir, they heat the blood, and we poor churchmen, who have to chastise the lusts of the flesh, should avoid them in toto; yet I would fain have some more.' And suiting the actions to the word, he helped himself to a large quantity.

  I should mention that I was sitting nearly opposite Lucy, and seeing her titter at the paradoxical method the worthy Father had of assisting himself to cucumber against his own argument, I thought it a favourable opportunity to show her that I sympathized with her mirth, so, stretching out my foot, I gently pressed her toe, and to my unspeakable joy she did not take her foot away, but rather, indeed, pushed it further in my direction.

  I then, on the pretence of adjusting my chair, brought it a little nearer the table, and was in ecstasies when I perceived that Lucy not only guessed what my manoeuvres meant, but actually in a very sly puss-like way brought her chair nearer too.

  Then balancing my arse on the edge of my seat as far as I could without being noticed, with my prick only covered with the table napkin, for it had with one wild bound burst all the remaining buttons on my breeches, I reached forward my foot, from which I had slid off my boot with the other toe, and in less than a minute I had worked it up so that I could just
feel the heat of her fanny.

  I will say this for her, she tried all she could to help me, but her cursed drawers were an insuperable obstacle, and I was foiled. I knew if I proceeded another inch I should inevitably come a cropper, and this knowledge, coupled with the fact that Lucy was turning wild with excitement, now red, now white, warned me to desist for the time being.

  I now foresaw a rich conquest - something worth waiting for - and my blood coursed through my veins at the thought of the sweet little bower nestling within those throbbing thighs, for I could tell from the way her whole frame trembled how thoroughly mad she was at the trammels which society imposed. Not only that, the moisture on my stocking told me that it was something more than the dampness of perspiration, and I felt half sorry to think that I had 'jewgaged' her. At the same time, to parody the words of the poet laureate—

  Tis better frigging with one's toe,

  Than never to have frigged at all.

  Some braised ham and roast fowls now came on, and I was astonished to find a poor priest of the Church of Rome launching out in this fashion. The Sauterne with the salmon had been simply excellent, and the Mumms, clear and sparkling, which accompanied the latter courses had fairly electrified me.