Anonymous - The Oyster, Volume IV

'All our dildoes are hand-modelled from life,' said the lively little creature who led me into an ante room. She was wearing a loose-fitting smock that was somewhat spattered with evidence of her work at the potter's wheel. Her hair was piled up high on her head but the odd chestnut-tinted wisp had escaped. With a clay-stained hand, she brushed it away from her forehead. I felt a familiar stirring down below as my member began to come to life. 'Madame will be ready to receive you shortly and will take you in hand.' There was a roguish gleam in her eye as she glanced at the telltale bulge of the erection that was now rising uncontrollably inside my trousers. 'I hope you will in turn be ready for her attentions.' She drew a deep breath and I saw the outline of a pair of quite succulent breasts thrusting out against the thin material of her smock. Quickly, mimicking the curtsy of a servant, she drew up the hem of her dress, bowed her head and bent her knee. To my surprise and delight I realised that she was wearing nothing underneath that enveloping garment. For a brief, utterly tantalising instant I saw revealed the dense curls of her pussey hair. 'In summer it becomes far too hot in the pottery workshop for the wearing of more than the minimum of clothing,' she said, responding at once to my unspoken question. 'How many of you are employed here?' I asked. 'There are usually some fifteen young ladies working at the wheels and the benches,' she replied.

'Are there no male potters employed?' I said. 'Two of the senior modellers, and then there is the young lad. An apprentice, but he is presently at home under the care of a doctor,' she answered.

'What is he suffering from?' I asked. 'Exhaustion.'

'The heat?' I asked. 'The fucking,' she replied. 'The what!' I spluttered. 'The fucking. I am sure, Sir, that you are a man of the world and will therefore understand that a dozen or more young ladies have needs that have to be satisfied, even sometimes during the working day.' 'Yours is a somewhat Bohemian attitude,'

I said. 'It is true, Sir, that many of us here do not subscribe unquestioningly to the more repressive morals that society would force upon us.' 'So how will you manage to enjoy yourselves in the unfortunate absence of your apprentice?' I asked carefully, while the thought of so much eager but unsatisfied pussey caused Mr. Pego to protrude ramrod-stiff. For a moment I recalled my recent extraordinary experiences in the studio of the painter uncle of a very good friend of mine. 'I could perhaps offer my services? I am always ready to lend a hand, or in this case, some other part, in the furtherance of the artistic endeavours of our society.' 'A very kind offer, Sir,' she said, 'but Madame would be most put out if you were no longer capable of paying proper attention to her demands when she sees you shortly. Afterwards, perhaps, if you are still so inclined, I would be most happy to accept your advances. I suspect, from the evidence of my eyes, that yours will be a proud addition to our selection. But, in the meantime at least, there is always the stock awaiting collection. Every dildo we produce,' she said proudly, 'is thoroughly tested for fit and for smoothness of finish before delivery to the customer.' As she had been speaking, her hand had unconsciously strayed down and, pulling up her skirt again, she had begun to rub her finger gently along her half-hidden cleft. Then, with a faraway look, she gave a little sigh of enjoyment and slipped first one, then a second finger, inside herself. She shivered. 'Oh, I do beg your pardon, Sir, I had quite forgot myself.' 'I could, er, help,' I stuttered. 'No, Sir, you really must contain yourself,' she said sadly. 'But,' brightening up, 'possibly we might for a moment or two, join hands in a mutual endeavour?' With that, she withdrew her questing fingers, reached out and squeezed my hand. I could feel a tantalising dampness on her as she guided my hand down towards her quim. 'I think I am just about ready to accommodate two fingers along with one of my own. If you were to approach me from behind, we could possibly meet in the middle.' She turned away from me and hitched up her skirt. A mouth-wateringly plump pair of naked buttocks was flaunted in my face as she bent down. 'See,' she said with a giggle, 'I can touch my toes.' As her thighs parted I slid my hand between them, my fingers caressing the luxurious dark jungle of her truly splendid bush. 'Can you find your way?' she giggled again. My exploring finger met hers at the moist portals of her cunney. 'Doctor Livingstone, I presume?' she said, teasingly. Rubbing herself against me, she drew first one and then a second finger inside the entrance to her cave of delights. 'There,' she said. 'Like that.' The tip of one finger touched against a juicy clit. She quivered and then urged me on, using my finger to stimulate herself. I slipped my other hand under her smock and felt my way gradually up the firm flesh of her body until I encountered the soft fullness of her titties. I kissed the back of her neck and clung to her, squeezing the yielding flesh. A nipple rose, engorged, against my palm. Meanwhile her clit also had swelled irresistibly under my touch. She urged me on, sliding back and forth against my now well-lubricated fingers. 'More,' she said. 'More! Faster!'

She began to moan softly. In an instant I plunged my fingers deep into her tunnel of love. 'No,' she said. 'Later. When Madame has completed her business.' I was pressed back to my former position. Now her clit was trapped between my fingers as I squeezed and petted. Her juices were flowing copiously. 'I suppose you had better finish what you have already started,' said a strange voice. I looked up with a startled gasp. Before us stood a small but stout, bombazine-clad woman who bore a striking resemblance to Her Majesty. I froze with embarrassment and alarm. For an awful moment I thought I had been surprised by Queen Victoria herself, by the Grace of God, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India and constitutional monarch of the United Kingdom and her Colonies, with two fingers buried in the cunt of one of her loyal subjects.

'Madame,' gasped my as yet nameless companion, 'this is Mr.

White. He has an appointment for eleven o'clock.' I should perhaps at this point explain to my readers exactly how I came to be present at that time and in that place. The story had started some days before. 'Andrew, you really must come and pay a visit to the dildo manufactory,' said Hannah. I had been unable to reply coherently on the instant since my head was buried between her wide-spread thighs and I was in the act of licking her to a state of ecstasy. 'Oooflll, wufflll, gluppp,' was all I could manage to say. Hannah, as I have explained in an earlier chapter of these memoirs, was the elder of the two daughters of the widow, Mrs. P-, at whose house I had lodgings. She was employed by Messrs Doulton in their art pottery in Lambeth as a painter and an expert in the application of glazes. She was also, on her own account, a student of the erotic decorative arts of the Orient and had a growing reputation in sophisticated circles for her very original urns and vases.

Privately commissioned, these depicted usually in great detail, the more abandoned activities of Antiquity. Readers may remember how she had been banished from the Bristol house of Colonel and Mrs. Moore when surprised trying to recreate, with the help of her friends, a classic Greek frieze. When I had finished my labours between her legs and withdrawn to a more conventional position-one where I could both hear and speak-she explained what she was talking about. It appeared that Hannah, along with a number of her more adventurous fellow artists, had been instrumental in setting up a discreet but now thriving business in the manufacture of dildoes. These were produced both on the potter's wheel and from wood. Many were decorated using the full range of the ceramic artist's or woodcarver's techniques.