Anonymous - Birch in the boudoir

Francesca's fair-skinned thighs tense with pleasure as the young man's tool parts her legs and enters her warm vagina from the rear. The old man requires her to suck at the same time, leaving Patrizia entirely idle. Presently the old roue withdraws from her mouth and presents his stiffened tool between the voluptuous, olive-skinned cheeks of Patrizia's bottom. There is some alarm in the wide eyes of her face, but, though she catches her breath at the outrage, the older man's knob widens Patrizia's arsehole and his piston is soon engulfed in her behind. The younger man rides Francesca's cunt for several minutes, then he withdraws and presents himself to Patrizia. There is a moment of shying away before Patrizia sucks at last, leaving Francesca idle as the two men busy themselves with the eighteen-year-old tomboy.

The older man draws from Patrizia's rear and, in turn, it is Francesca who-for all her sophistication and promiscuity-shies away. The older man kneels patiently, presenting himself, awaiting her compliance. A guard, cane in hand, comes forward.) The bamboo marks the pale, oval cheeks of Francesca's bottom. The blond coiffure twists, and her hips squirm. It is suggested that her modesty is merely a pretence. Her last vestiges of propriety require it to seem as if she acted under compulsion. The caning continues until, after a dozen strokes, Francesca opens her mouth widely and wildly for her master, sucking as if her life depended upon it.

Now the young man deserts Patrizia's lips and, taking advantage of Francesca's pale, bamboo'd seat, stretches her rear dimple 'round his shaft. After ten minutes of arse exercise for Francesca, he draws away. Now you may imagine how Patrizia's brown eyes widen, how her protests come through pressed lips.

The guard with the bamboo can scarcely believe his good fortune. His cane smacks down across the width of Patrizia's bottom, so voluptuous. Almost twenty strokes before the cries and tears lead to a tremulous parting of the lips and the weight of the young man's penis, pressing on Patrizia's tongue.

You will imagine, Charlie, that even now I gloss over some of the grosser details. You know, I am sure, that the two girls were not entirely unwilling, and that some of their defiance was assumed in order to heighten the drama by the use of the bamboo. My reason for thinking this was seen in the last act. The two men lay down on their backs upon a pair of padded benches. The two girls lay face down, Francesca on the younger man and Patrizia on the elder. Both their Italian cunts were impaled on the stout tools, and the girls themselves were to provide all the motion. Over each bench stood a guard with a cane, who thrashed the backside of the girl presented to him by these postures.

Francesca's pale, oval buttocks were soundly caned and you might think that Patrizia's darker, heavy-cheeked arse was bamboo'd with exceptional cruelty. Both girls cried with the anguish of the bamboo, and yet with pleasure at the same time. Patrizia came twice and Francesca four times, before the guards at length laid down their switches, as the two masters pumped moulted passion into their slave girls' vaginas.

The two libertines resigned the Italian beauties to the guards and turned away. It was then that I heard the younger man speak to the older through his carnival mask. "Well, Uncle Brandon, may the deuce take me if that isn't the best night's work that a fellow ever did. I can't say that even Lizzie should ever know quite all of it from me! Have you ploughed enough now, old fellow? Shall we take Nabyla and Jenny Khan to the next room and roger 'em the same way? Or shall we bed them separately?"

I swooned, Charlie, as perhaps they have told you. Carried to bed I now write this last letter. But why did you not say that you were to be at the demonstration lecture. Did they not tell you? This moment two letters arrive for me in your dear hand, telling of the drama of Noreen and your life as a fugitive. Are you now still in bed with Nabyla, my sweet? Stay there! For I am coming, Charlie, and shall bring this last letter in my own person.

Lizzie

With this last charming note, the correspondence between our two young friends comes to a conclusion. Yet their frolics were not quite over, as I may testify, because I have been their companion these past few weeks at Ramallah, preparing the letters for publication.

Many mysteries were revealed, not least the truth about that delightful old rogue, Uncle Brandon. The frisky old fellow was alive and well when Charles heard of his death and was summoned to Gray's Inn. In truth, it was the old man's bank balance rather than his health which was on the wane. He had withdrawn abroad to Arabian climes, where he consoled himself with a seraglio of bare beauties. In his desperation, he saw how easily a penny might be turned by supplying his wealthy Arab neighbours with English girls who would cost them dear at auction. In Greystones, he discerned an unending source of supply.

Miss Martinet was most accommodating in the matter, for old Uncle Brandon had given her a fuck or two which still tickled the rim of her cunt a year later. Maggie and Noreen, Jackie and Mandy, Tania and Shawn, were but a few of the young ladies from Greystones who were judged worthy of release on condition of taking up employment with ladies or gentlemen who were just en route for the Middle East.

The enterprise prospered until there was that certain difficulty with Noreen. Thereafter, both Charles and Miss Martinet were obliged to follow rather hastily in the footsteps of Uncle Brandon. By the happiest touch, it was the cadaverous old brief of Gray's Inn, Silas Raven, who was apprehended for impropriety. To his great good fortune, he had been at Eton with the Attorney General and recollected vividly how the Attorney General at thirteen was a devil for sucking the prick of every other boy in the school, including several members of the present cabinet. The prosecution was hushed up for fear of what old Silas might divulge. I thus came safe to the Pasha of Ramallah and was kindly installed in a favoured suite with windows into the other rooms.

Let me confess that, like Lizzie, Charlie, and the Pasha, I am a libertine. Our own pleasures and those of our companions form our rule of life. Yet compared with the moralists who infest this place, we are innocents indeed.

The young English Milord is a builder of empire, his place in the House of Peers awaiting him. He deals severely with warm-skinned beauties like Jennifer Khan or Nabyla Justo, over whom he will one day rule. Do you recall his frolic with Connie, the Chinese maiden, during Pasha Ibrahim's carriage exercise? It will not surprise you to learn that I glimpsed this young aristocrat, through one of my secret windows, exercise his skill upon the delectable Miss Carol Jolly. At twenty-years-old, she has the trim figure and sharp features of a lynx-eyed temple dancer. That warm, gold tan might be Grecian or Arabian, with sloping brow and nose, a short crop of lightly curled dark hair brushed upward. How slender the gold neck and the neat whorls of ears bare for kissing!

Her straight, slender back and neat breasts rise from a narrow waist. From her knees a pair of slim and outward-branching thighs rise to her trim but agile hips. When she bends or kneels forward, the tautly but lasciviously rounded cheeks of Miss Jolly's bottom are wantonly and deeply separated by her trim thighs' outward slope.

They tell me she first caught Milord's attention when he was a mere pupil who chanced to see her brushing a carpet on all fours-or was it polishing a harness-room floor? He was then only Master Henry, not Milord. Now, as I watched them, he had her at his absolute disposal. He liked to see Miss Jolly's trim figure in close-fitting singlet and even tighter riding jeans.