Anonumous: Flossie, A Venus of Fifteen

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Anonumous Flossie, A Venus of Fifteen
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    Flossie, A Venus of Fifteen
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Flossie, A Venus of Fifteen


Chapter One. 'My love, she's but a lassie yet'

Towards the end of a bright sunny afternoon in June, I was walking in one of the quieter streets of Piccadilly, when my eye was caught by two figures coming in my direction. One was that of a tall, finely-made woman about twenty-seven years of age, who would under other circumstances, have received something more than an approving glance. But it was her companion that rivetted my gaze of almost breathless admiration. This was a young girl of sixteen, of such astounding beauty of face and figure as I had never seen or dreamt of. Masses of bright, wavy, brown hair fell to her waist. Deep violet eyes looked out from under long curling lashes, and seemed to laugh in unison with the humorous curves of the full red lips. These and a thousand other charms I was to know by heart later on, but what struck me most at this view, was the extraordinary size and beauty of the girl's bust, shown to all possible advantage by her dress which, in the true artistic French style, crept in between her breasts, outlining their full and perfect form with loving fidelity. Tall and lithe, she moved like a young goddess, her short skirt shewing the action of a pair of exquisitely moulded legs, to which the tan-coloured open-work silk stockings were plainly designed to invite attention. Unable to take my eyes from this enchanting vision, I was approaching the pair, when to my astonishment, the elder lady suddenly spoke my name.

'You do not remember me, Captain Archer.' For a moment I was at a loss, but the voice gave me the clue.

'But I do,' I answered, 'you are Miss Letchford, who used to teach my sisters.'

'Quite right. But I have given up teaching, for which fortunately there is not longer any necessity. I am living in a flat with my dear little friend here. Let me introduce you,-Flossie Eversley-Captain Archer.'

The violet eyes laughed up at me; and the red lips parted in a merry smile. A dimple appeared at the corner of the mouth. I was done for! Yes; at thirty-five years of age, with more than my share of experiences in every phase of love, I went down before this lovely girl with her childish face smiling at me above the budding womanhood of her rounded breasts, and confessed myself defeated!

A moment or two later, I had passed from them with the address of the flat in my pocket, and under promise to go down to tea on the next day.

At midday I received the following letter:

Dear Captain Archer,

I am sorry to be obliged to be out when you come; and yet not altogether sorry, because I should like you to know Flossie very well. She is an orphan, without a relation in the world. She is just back from a Paris school. In years she is of course a child, but in tact and knowledge she is a woman; also in figure, as you can see for yourself! She is of an exceedingly warm and passionate nature, and a look that you gave her yesterday was not lost upon her. In fact, to be quite frank, she had fallen in love with you! You will find her a delightful companion. Use her very tenderly, and she will do anything in the world for you. Speak to her about life in the French school; she loves to talk of it. I want her to be happy, and I think you can help. Remember she is only just sixteen.

Yours sincerely,

Eva Letchford

I must decline any attempt to describe my feelings on receiving this remarkable communication. My first impulse was to give up the promised call at the flat. But the flower-like face, the soft red lips and the laughing eyes passed before my mind's eye, followed by an instant vision of the marvellous breasts and the delicate shapely legs in their brown silk stockings, and I knew that fate was too strong for me. For it was of course impossible to misunderstand the meaning of Eva Letchford's letter, and indeed, when I reached the flat, she herself opened the door to me, whispering as she passed out, 'Flossie is in there, waiting for you. You two can have the place to yourselves. One last word. You have been much in Paris, have you not? So has Flossie. She is very young-and there are ways-Goodbye.'

I passed into the next room. Flossie was curled up in a long chair, reading. Twisting her legs from under her petticoats, with a sudden movement that brought into full view her delicately embroidered drawers, she rose and came towards me, a rosy flush upon her cheeks, her eyes shining, her whole bearing instinct with an enchanting mixture of girlish coyness and anticipated pleasure. Her short white skirt swayed as she moved across the room, her breasts stood out firm and round under the close-fitting woven silk jersey; what man of mortal flesh and blood could withstand such allurements as these! Not I, for one! In a moment, she was folded in my arms. I rained kisses on her hair, her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and then, grasping her body closer and always closer to me, I glued my lips upon the scarlet mouth and revelled in a long and maddeningly delicious kiss-a kiss to be ever remembered-so well remembered now, indeed, that I must make some attempt to describe it. My hands were behind Flossie's head, buried in her long brown hair. Her arms were round my body, locked and clinging. At the first impact, her lips were closed, but a moment later they parted, and slowly, gently, almost as if in the performance of some solemn duty, the rosy tongue crept into my mouth, and bringing with it a flood of the scented juices from her throat, curled amorously round my own, whilst her hands dropped to my buttocks, and standing on tiptoe, she drew me to her with such extraordinary intimacy that it seemed our bodies were already in conjunction. Not a word was spoken on either side-indeed, under the circumstances, speech was impossible, for our tongues had twined together in a caress of unspeakable sweetness, which neither would be the first to forego. At last, the blood was coursing through my veins at a pace that became unbearable and I was compelled to unglue my mouth from hers. Still silent, but with love and longing in her eyes, she pressed me into a low chair, and seating herself on the arm, passed her hand behind my head, and looking full into my eyes, whispered my name in accents that were like the sound of a running stream. I kissed her open mouth again and again, and then, feeling that the time had come for some little explanation:

'How long will it be before your friend Eva comes back?' I asked.

'She has gone down into the country, and won't be here till late this evening.'

'Then I may stay with you, may I?'

'Yes, do, do, do, Jack. Do you know, I have got seats for an Ibsen play tonight, I was wondering… if… you would… take me!'

'Take you-to an Ibsen play-with your short frocks, and all that hair down your back! Why, I don't believe they'd let us in?'

'Oh, if that's all, wait a minute.'

She skipped out of the room with a whisk of her petticoats and a free display of brown silk legs. Almost before I had time to wonder what she was up to, she was back again. She had put on a long skirt of Eva's, her hair was coiled on the top of her head, she wore my 'billycock' hat and a pair of blue pincenez, and carrying a crutch-handled stick, she advanced upon me with a defiant air, and glaring down over the top of her glasses, she said in a deep masculine voice:

'Now, sir, if you're ready for Ibsen, I am. Or if your tastes are so low that you can't care about a play, I'll give you a skirt dance.'

As she said this, she tore off the long dress, threw my hat onto a sofa, let down her hair with a turn of the wrist, and motioning me to the piano, picked up her skirts and began to dance.

Enchanted as I was by the humour of her quick change to the 'Ibsen woman', words are vain to describe my feelings as I feebly tinkled a few bars on the piano and watched the dancer.

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