Anonymous - The romance of Violette

Florence understood her, picked up the royal jewel, slipped it under her lips so there could be no interruption in the pleasure; and, in effect contrived in such a clever manner that the scale was unbroken, but went on with a new degree of intensity. Florence kept her eyes fixed on the jewel. She saw it enter; glide out. The Countess now did not speak, but only gave utterance to little shrieks. Suddenly she cried:

"The milk!…the milk!…"

Florence pressed the spring and a deep sigh showed that the Countess was experiencing the pleasure which is only given by coition, because that alone can satiate and calm. But the Countess knew that after this sensation another one was to come which only awaited the signal, and Florence in the midst of the plaintive ejaculations of her victim, made out the words: "The giant!… the giant!…"

Florence was expecting this request with impatience. The moment had come when she was to play her real part; she threw on the floor Diane's jewel, and began to play the part of a man with the greatest vigour. The Countess shrieked but strung herself up for the pain.

"Go-go on!… Oh! you are splitting me open! Go On! Ah! It is in!"

The Countess was not mistaken, it was indeed in, and the paroxysm of enjoyment was come. Then, quite maddened, she uttered cries of passion, shrieks of rage, among which might be heard almost inarticulate requests:

"Your mouth… your tongue… take my breasts; kiss the nipples. Oh gracious! how nice it is! Now the spring… Ah! my handsome giant!… Again! Again! Again!"

At last the Countess begged for mercy. Florence unclasped the belt and let it fall to the floor with its appendage.

The Countess lay stretched out full length and motionless on the bed.

Florence felt half mad with excitement. She filled again the ivory jewel with milk; leant back in the easy chair, and inserted the end of the dildoe until it touched her maidenhead. But soon she perceived that in this posture she lost part of her strength; so she sought another. She placed two pillows side by side on the easy chair, on which she rested her elbow, and she began to use the jewel in a manner which gave evidence of her skill and long habit; she harmonized the motion of her loins with the progress of pleasure; then, feeling it coming, she pushed the instrument home, gave a shriek of pain and of pleasure, and, imparting to the royal jewel the necessary movements, she fell back, almost fainting away with the exquisite sensation.

The beautiful Countess sat up on the bed and looked with astonishment. The proud young woman had kept her word. She had sacrificed her virginity to herself and herself alone.

We were three days and three nights without seeing the Countess, and on the fourth day she came to say that Violette might begin her lessons with Florence. After a scene of jealousy very well acted by the Countess, Florence gave her word that she would never interfere with Violette, limiting her attention to the development of her natural talent.

The union of the two disciples of Lesbos was consecrated, and the Countess acquired a marked liking for her new relations, without, however, in any way neglecting Violette, who for a long time continued in her studies with Florence and made a very successful debut.

Our delightful life of love thus went on for a few years; then, then… Ah! it is sad to say what happened. I wished to conclude here one of the most charming episodes of my existence. But since I have begun I must go to the end.

One evening, the Countess, who was always ready to take Violette away from me, found means to keep her in her box after a reception.

The child caught cold and began to cough. This was neglected. She became seriously ill, and as she seemed more excitable since her illness we loved one another too well, in spite of the remonstrance's of the doctor and with the natural consequences.

She was very ill during the winter, lingered on through the summer, and when the autumn leaves began to strew the ground, we accompanied poor little Violette to her last resting-place.

Before expiring she had taken me in her arms, saying: "My own Christian, I love you."

I had a large glass bell placed over her grave, and underneath the Countess and myself planted some of the flowers which had given her a name. For a long time we mourned her loss. Then Florence's love on the one side, and the incidents of everyday life on the other, effaced little by little the bitter recollection of the supreme parting.

I even forgot on the anniversary of her death to go and gather the tiny flowers, the roots of which fed on the substance of my beloved little mistress.

The Countess was more faithful to the memory of poor Violette, and sometimes sent me the flowers with but one word:

"Ungrateful man!"

And now that the story of our short-lived love has come to an end, I have nothing more to do than roll up my MS., tie it up, and, happen what may, I throw it at random on the desk of some intelligent publisher who may be clever enough to catch it up.

Sweet Seventeen Sweet Seventeen: the True Story of a Daughter's Awful Whipping and its Delightful if Direful Consequence Anonymous What is there in the air of Paris which leads us all on to excesses of erotic appetite? Why is sensual gratification the be-all and end-all of the dwellers in the French capital, not dubbed the "Gay City" for nothing?

The atmosphere is transparently clear; the climate is relaxing. Most of the Parisian females are anaemic, and their nerves get the upper hand.

Is it the same with the males, perchance in a lesser degree, so that we may diffidently put forward the hypothesis that neuropaths predominate in the population of the pretty town?

There is not the slightest doubt, be the reasons what they may, that the craving for copulation takes hold of the most frigid individuals of both sexes when once they live within the Lutetian walls.

Oliver Sandcross, born and bred in London, was a splendid example of our bold sweeping theory. Here was an English gentleman, well brought up, and a noted engineer, rather pious too-that is the extraordinary part of it all-who developed the most satyr-like tastes when he settled down in Paris, with his wife and only child, a daughter. The capricious fairy, electricity, whose secrets have only been but slightly fathomed in the last few years, had tempted staid Oliver, and he became one of the most ardent seekers after the advantages to be gained in subjugating this new force. Brilliant offers, relating to lighting and tramways, had caused him to take up his residence in Paris, where, originally wealthy, he made more money than he knew what to do with.

Soon after his arrival, his religious habits dropped away from him, and after business hours he found the greatest pleasure and delight in hunting for feminine prey among venal beauties of all ranks. He admitted every specimen to the album of his fancy, from the married woman, met with at friends' houses and received in his own, to the short-skirted, twelve-year-old flower-girl of the Boulevards. Of the intermediate stages on the rungs of the ladder of lust, it would take us too long to talk, although a classification of Paris prostitution would be a tempting task for the student of psychopathy-if indeed it were possible to establish in schematic form the odds and ends of masculine and feminine humanity which go to make up the alluring and ever-changing kaleidoscope of Paris "on the loose".

Mr. Sandcross had tried everything in turns and nothing long, and his libidinous, almost insensate curiosity had led him to essay what new joys could be found in the depilated arms of effeminate, degenerate lads; some who had proposed themselves to the merry, rich Englishman in good society and others fresh from the workbench, selling their half-starved bodies for pocket-money. In justice to our sturdy Anglo-Saxon, we hasten to state that Socratic vice did not hold him long. His curiosity glutted, he returned to lavish his money on the petticoated little animals who are said to rule the world because their hands rock the cradle. But we think their domination arises from the fact of us men placing our sceptre in their adroit fingers.