Anonymous - The Romances Of Blanche La Mare

“She has money, and she is an artist to the heels of her little shoes,” continued Moorfield. “But she has the lust of money, and whoever the man may be, provided he can give her any more, she will fuck him for it. She will marry that ennobled descendant of a complacent Stuart prostitute and despite the twenty thousand a year he can give her, she will go on acting, because she likes it, loves it for itself, and like the fame and applause it brings her, and she will go on fucking, because she likes that too, and because, however much money she has, she glories in earning more by her cunt.”

“I gather,” says Gladys, “that you and your new friend had become pretty intimate-to judge from you language.”

Well, gentle readers, we had. A sort of affinity seemed to have sprung up between us- and we glided into using dirty words just as if they had been the ordinary common talk of polite conversation.

Little Annabel Cupid was the next goal of his spiteful tongue: he hadn't much to say of her save that she only slept with Jews, and that she wasn't able to suck the man off because she feared that the enamel on her face would crack.

Of Madame Sydney, the operatic star, he told me that she had an absolute passion for loose life, but that she feared so much to find herself enceinte, that she would only play the sucking game with her lovers, or allow them to make an entrance up her stage door.

“The dirt road, as the Americans call it,” interrupts the conscientious one.

“American are dirty people.” I say.

“And have you ever-?” but at that moment we hear the door open, and our dear old Baron comes in the room.

He enters with that assumption of youth which long experience has taught me to know that the old boy feels like it, salutes first myself and then Gladys with cherry kisses, hands us each a bunch of rare flowers, and squats down contentedly on my big window seat-“You're interrupting, as usual, Baron,” I say.

“If I may only make some trifling compensation?”

“I really begin to think that the only punishment we can inflict, is to put him into the book, right name and all,” this from Gladys.

“I have lunched so well and I feel so nice and I know so well that there is no such company in London as can be found her, may not that be an excuse?”

We try for a little to go on with the work, but the old man is always anxious to put his arm round my waist or to look over Gladys shoulder to see how she is getting on, and the work doesn't go on at all.

“I see you are writing about Sodomites,” he chuckled.

“Yes,” answers Gladys, savagely, “Aren't you one?”

The dear old man wasn't angry, but proceeded there and then to talk volubly about the particular sect of young and old gentlemen who prefer connection with their own sex to the ordinary channels provided in the female kind by wise dispensation of providence.

“You should see the sods as you call them,” he began, “and the word reminds me of a dear old friend who proposed to insult a gentleman who had behaved in that way with his youngest son, my friend's youngest son, that is. He left a card at the bugger's club, with the inscription, “You are a Sodomite.” And it wasn't till a day afterwards that he remembered he had put two “d's” in the middle of sodomite. It upset him terribly.”

“I suppose you know the tale, Baron,” says Gladys, “of the New York young gentleman of that persuasion who walked delicately, like Agag, into a New York saloon and asked, “Is my friend Sweet Evening Breeze here?”

“No,” replied the bartender, “he's locked up.”

“Oh, dear,” said the young man, “what for?”

“Cock sucking.”

“Thank God, it's not for theft.”

The Baron laughed. “After all,” he said, “I suppose it all seems very disgusting to you girls, but sometimes an old roue feels the need of something new, and nice little boy to suck his cock, mind you, I put in no defense of buggery, is rather a pleasing change.”

“That may be,” says Gladys, “but as for what you call buggery, I for my part, don't believe it's possible. I know no man could get up me that way.”

“You remind me rather of the eminent C.O. my dear Gladys,” answers the Baron, “the C.O. who said it was practically impossible to obtain a conviction against a prisoner for that particular offense, because, one half of the jury do it themselves, and the other half don't believe it's possible.”

“I am still a female Didymus,” says Gladys.

“Shall I prove it?” asks the Baron.

“If you like,” says Gladys.

“With your permission, Madame Blanche?” queries the Baron.

I nodded, really thinking that the old man was joking, but he immediately produced a fountain pen, and sat down at the writing table. When he had finished a brief note, he asked me if I could have it sent.

“But Baron?” I murmured, hesitatingly.

“It's all perfectly right, my dear Blanche. Your friend doubted the existence of sodomy, and I am going to prove it to her that it does exist. This note will bring two boys, adepts at the game.”

“But,” I interposed again, “isn't it rather dangerous?”

“Certainly not. The boys are as discreet as the tomb; it pays them to be. They need not know that this is your house; they will probably think that it is a place I have taken.”

“And what sort of boys are they?” asks Gladys.

“Choir boys, both of them.”

“Isn't it bad for the voice?” I asked.

“Actual sodomy perhaps is, but sucking off is wonderful, as I dare say you know, my dear Blanche?”

I did know. Earlier in my career I had the tip from Madame Sydney, the famous soprano. She kept two fine young men for that very purpose, and every night before fulfilling an important engagement, she sucked one or the other, sometimes both, to a finish. She regarded male semen as the finest possible lubricant for the vocal chords. I took her advice with good results. It's much nicer than voice medicines, and I dare say, many of you dear little comic stars and music hall artists who read and get naughty over this immortal work can bear me out. Take my advice, dears, and if, in a pantomime you get jealous because on of the comedians is going too well, suck him off; his performance will lose, while yours will gaining in proportion.

The Baron's boys arrived in about half an hour. Gladys and I had discreetly masked our pretty faces, but masked very little else, for we had both begun to feel very randy, and had employed the waiting interval by making the old man lick our pouting pussies, when the boys were shown in by my confidential maid they found two pretty women lying on their backs on the big rug with bare legs, also bare cunts; temptingly displayed.

They were charmingly pretty boys, both about sixteen, and as sweet and fresh to look at as young girls. The Baron kissed them both on the lips, and told them to begin at once.

They undressed stark naked. Such nicely formed white skinned bodies they had, and firm little pricks, no preliminary dalliance being wanted to make them rise. The entertainment began with sucking, first one pretty boy sucking the other, and then both playing 69. But Gladys was anxious for the sodomy, so boy number one was bent over the back of the sofa, his little anus distended for the reception of the other's weapon.

“We shall want vaseline,” hazarded the second boy.

“Nonsense,” said Gladys, rising to the occasion, “this will do.”

With that she placed her finger in her cunt, which was over-flowing with juice, and anointed first the anus of the recipient, then the prick of the bugger.

It did do, for the prick slid in easily. A few wriggles of pain on the part of the subject, and then the weapon was right inside him and up to the hilt. The subject boy seemed to enjoy is thoroughly, for his prick grew stiff as a ramrod, so beautifully stiff that Gladys could not resist fondling it. A few frantic strokes, a quiver, and the boy withdrew his cock, dripping with spend. It was done; Gladys had seen the act of buggery accomplished which could have cost either of the two-performers imprisonment for life.