Anonymous - Laura

“The cunny of their mistress first? Oh, how divine! You make my bottom wriggle more-I beg you work your finger more!”

“Desiring of darkness you were first brought to it, I vow. Or at dusk taken, behind curtains drawn. Your legs strained, you sought to retract, could not, and thus urged back a little, felt the prick's full inward plunge, expanding to receive, and sucked him dry. Did you thereafter cry, fall forward faint, the smears of sperm warm on your nether cheeks, need to be shushed, drawn up, your skirt descended?”

“Mama said that I ever looked immaculate in my immaculacy. Ah, but he bubbled, strove and strained, in-forced, enforced his penis to my plum. So I to Perdition came. Think you wrong of me?”

“Were you bold thereafter? Did you offer?”

“No.” Another giggle. I am clutched to her. Subtle our thighs move and our pussies meet. Liquid to liquid urge the silent lips. My clitoris sweet tingles, sharp to hers.

“Speak. You may speak, Laura.”

“Ever modest I moved, Amelia. Do you not remember? Were you not hidden in the shadows of the leaves, questing by moonlight along the roofs rim to peer within my room? The strap was ever-present, broad and thick. I counted of it near five inches width, the leather creased, striated. Offering came not in question. True, there came a time, an evening close upon mid-summer's call, when I removed my drawers, awaited kisses, the cupping of his palm to my nest, heel of hand rubbing to my hairs, my slit at pillage. Oh! I have not even told my own thoughts this!”

“We are upon confession, are we not? Continue.”

“Desire is pale. I felt a pallor at my eyes. Knees flexed, I flicked a finger at my nest. Thus was I come upon, all disarrayed, fell back upon my bed and moaned my cry.”

“Speak, little devil, speak more clearly. You are panting. I can scarce hear you. Did he come armed? Armed for the combat you desired?”

“I know not if I dream it. Do I dream it? He came with penis at full stand, his balls displayed above his trouser's gap. Seizing my hair, he drew me up, hot cock against my belly pressed, for a long moment we stood thus. Aeons passed-I heard the curtains stir, the voices of the workers in the fields. A milk-pail rattled and then all was still. Gently he cupped my cunny, felt it pulse, and swore to its allure. The lips he said would suck along his prick, draw out his sperm in shoots of white desire. I fainted at the words…”

“You lie! I know you now to lie!”

“I wished it so. Does that not make it true? Ever the worlds of true and not-true merge, are drawn within, coagulate and re-emerge, claiming inheritance to Now. Time is a burden on us all.”

“Be quiet, child-make not much of death nor Time lest ere thy day thou reap an evil thing. Have you not read Swinburne in his musings? Finger-teased or twiddled, yes, perhaps, but ever you were turned about, your cheeks put up to him and boldly parted. Ever modest you moved? I have no doubt of it. I had a cousin such, most sensual in bed, yet looked a nun, her mouth pursed primly as a chorister's. It becomes some so to be. Those who are brought to me for training and conversion are quite other. They are pursed of lips both above and below and yet must learn to take the squirtings in their dells, their tight rosettes, their mewing mouths. Came he never in your mouth?”

“But once, obedient, I took it-yes-his penis to my lips. Shadowed, his balls hung down beneath. I marvelled at their majesty and weight. Being kneeling, I took chance to fondle them and heard his groanings far and faint above. Then, my head being pressed most fervently, I drew in more or more drew in-one says such as one will. He quivered in the velvet of my mouth, was taut with veins and urgent to expel. I please you, do I please you now? Is my recital apt, well phrased and orchestrated to your whims?”

“You hide desires beneath your gaiety. He came well in your mouth? He came?”

“Sperm-guzzling were my lips and a fine bubbling made of it. He could have laid me then upon my back- but no. How lewd, how inappropriate, to have my face to his!”

“Hah! A fine curry of emotions you make within yourself. I know not whether you are truly shy or lewd within your shyness, as some are.”

“Those you spur to wicked deeds-whence do they come?”

“From good families all and well accounted for. I will have no other. The first two you encountered here are but servants. As to the marquee, the strains of vulgarity in my display invites. The paintings without are crude-are meant to be. There is a strange allure in such. Emboldened by wine, the gentry come within to see the ladies at their posings. Thereafter, choosing carefully among pairs as I do, one sits to conversations serious. The pale, the pretty, the unchaperoned are brought within and given sweet liqueurs. It is taken first to be a merriment, an innocence. Few have had their drawers down to it ere I tame them. In loose and idle talk the manner of their ways is quick uncovered. To one I might say how pretty it would be to see her pose-to another that I desire to see her petticoat or drawers. I jest, of course, or so appear to do to hide the blushes on their cheeks. Too timid to depart, too awed to speak, they listen to my words, cast glances at their kin, seek rescue but none comes. Implacability here has it pursuits. I have my house and thereto they are brought. Many are prim and quiet; some smile uncertain. To allay maternal hearts it will have been put about that they are taking the waters at Tunbridge Wells or some such. I am not cruel with them, my love. Hitherto they have been brought to kneel for no good purpose other than of prayer. I fondle, coddle, urge and spur them on until the fleshly rod is planted in.”

“Do you tie their legs?”

My eyes sparkle. I appear to have a scent of the game.

“Would you have it so? What devilry is ofttimes in you, Laura! I have my systems-know no failures yet. A girl so mounted might retain resentments. The penis knows no conscience, nor the quim. The latter first is teased and tingled, knows its stimulations. Before they receive the leaping jets of come, they must believe themselves to have surrendered.”

“I did not struggle.”

“You are passive and active, too. Such pleases me. If all came as you, I would be begging now for crusts. What an utterness of boredom! Would that I had you as a monitor!”

“As what?” I sip and smile at her above the glass's rim.

“To monitor the girls in their becomings, assuage their doubts and have them put to it. Of occasion, only, for it pleasures me to do so myself, to hear their clouding cries, observe their eyes.”

“Mine you may not observe. I have my privacies. Be certain of that, despite my confessions.”

“As you will, though at times you will favour my ticklings. I shall bring a pretty feather to your quim and make you writhe. What's o'clock?”

“Near half past four.”

My uncle answers, entering. The question not having been addressed, conveyed nor posted to him yet, he snatches at it even so in effort to inveigle. There is straw upon his trousers. Heavily ignored, he sits and wilts. I receive Amelia's carte de visile, perceive her home to be in Kensington. Such intelligence is already in my uncle's possession, I believe. Having sat, he rises, hopeful speaks.

“We may see you tomorrow, Madam?”

“At eight of the evening, shall we say? Bring her, of course.”

She is gone. Susan, full dressed, appears and leads us out.

Her face is the face of one who has lost her dreams.

When there is imminence of hope one does not always speak of it. Better to enchant the mind with dreams than wait upon reality. Hence my uncle on returning broods and holds himself most properly within himself. I have no dreams as yet but let the fragments of the day drift through my mind.