Fifty Shades of Victorian Desire (32 page)

During the afternoon, as good luck would have it, a wire from Hull (Oatlands Hall was thirty miles from that town) came for Mr. Leveson, desiring him to repair there to meet an old college chum, who was passing through the seaport en route for Norway. So about five o’clock we had an early dinner, and wished him good bye until the following day.

Mrs. Leveson had a splendid voice, and as two other musical friends dropped in later on, we had a most harmonious evening.

Towards ten o’clock, while I was turning over Mrs. Leveson’s music for her, I seized an opportunity to whisper, ‘Shall I come in to you, or will you visit a poor benighted bachelor to-night?’

‘The latter,’ she replied, and blushed up to the roots of her hair. She had not yet learnt how to deaden the qualms of conscience, but she was woman enough to intimate, very
sotto voce,
‘That we should be observed if we whispered any more.’

‘Mr. De Vaux, would you mind turning over for me, Mr. Clinton is so very awkward.’

This was the cut direct, before three others, too, but I grinned and bore it.

‘She did not find you so awkward this morning, Clinton,’ whispered he, as he leisurely took his stand by the piano, and I passed into the adjoining apartment, where there was a ‘cut-and-come-again supper,’ to which I did ample justice.

About eleven o’clock, the guests having gone, Mrs. Leveson bade us both good-night in a stately, formal, way, and retired, and De Vaux and I proceeded to the billiard room.

‘I have a proposition to make to you,’ said he, as he was chalking his cue for a game.

I couldn’t think what De Vaux’s rather serious manner imported. At first I imagined he was sore at losing his pin, and as my intrigue had been so delicious, I told him I knew what he was about to say, and that he might keep the heirloom (for I always believed it was an heirloom), I didn’t really want it, and pointed out that he could salve his conscience in not paying the bet, as I had won it under circumstances which savoured of unfairness, but De Vaux stopped me.

‘Let us sit down,’ he said, ‘I hardly feel in the humour for the green cloth to-night. Listen to me a few minutes.’

I sat down, feeling curious to know what was coming next.

‘The pin is yours, Clinton,’ said he, ‘and I have even forgotten that I ever possessed such a thing, but I wish to speak to you upon another matter.’

‘My dear, De Vaux,’ said I, ‘wait until I have lighted another cigar. Now, fire away.’

‘You are, as you justly call yourself, a Cunt Philosopher; lately I have gone in for arse castigation a good deal, and the passion that I once had for the more genuine article I foolishly imagined had died out.’

‘What the devil does all this prelude mean, old man?’

‘Simply this. Three years ago I was seriously, nay madly, in love with Mrs. Leveson. I would have given my finger tips to possess her, and when I made advances which were spurned, and eventually proceeded to extremes, which resulted in my being politely told to make myself scarce, I was cut up more than I have ever been in my life, either before or since.’

‘What damned nonsense you are talking, De Vaux.’

‘I’m speaking the sober truth, Clinton. I accepted Leveson’s invite down here thinking I had got over my foolish passion, but before I had been in her company ten minutes I had all the old feeling come back again with renewed force, and knowing how hopeless was the endeavour to become possessor of her charms, I made up my mind to cut short my visit.’

‘What noble, lofty sentiment is this, my worthy friend; I’ll be shot if I can understand it.’

‘When I came in and discovered you this morning, the first feeling that predominated was rampant jealousy, and I really believe that had I not governed myself by walking hastily away from the scene, I should have shot both of you.’

‘Damn it, man, the bet was of your own making.’

‘I know it, and I cursed myself as a blasted idiot for having made it, and then calmer thoughts prevailed. Now, as you have enjoyed one of the divinest women that was ever cast in beauty’s mould, I want you to do me a good turn. I have, I think, without wishing to remind you of obligations rendered, done you one or two services in the fucking line.’

I remembered Lucy, and at once acquiesced.

‘Tonight, knowing what I did, I watched you and Mrs. Leveson, and, although I heard no words spoken, am quite sure that at the piano you arranged an assignation.’

‘I did.’

‘In your bedroom, or hers?’

‘I my own.’

‘Clinton, be a d — d good friend,’ said De Vaux, earnestly, ‘let me take your place.’

‘She will find you out,’ said I, not altogether falling in with his view, for although I had guessed what he was leading up to, I didn’t quite relish the situation.

‘What if she does, it will not matter once I am well in her; she won’t cry out, that I can bargain for.’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘how do you propose to work it?’

‘Simply in this way, I take your bed, you take mine.’

‘Right you are,’ said I, and I really meant to oblige poor De Vaux at the time, but I was always a practical joker, and as I knew Hannah, the dread of her master being removed, would be sure to run up within an hour of my retiring, I looked forward to some fun.

We wished each other good-night, exchanging rooms as agreed, and acting upon my advice, De Vaux extinguished his candle, for fear of Mrs. Leveson coming in too soon. I waited to hear him piddle, and get into bed, and then undressing myself, hastily crossed over to my darling.

She was lying, propped up by the pillows, reading ‘Ovid’s Art of Love’, a book I had seen in the library, and during the evening had recommended to her notice.

‘Dear Mr. Clinton, I thought I was to come into you.’

‘No, my precious,’ said I, ‘the bed is too narrow, and De Vaux sleeps so lightly he might hear us.’

As I said this I lifted the bed clothes lightly off her, and found that with natural bashfulness she had gone to bed in her drawers.

‘Off with those appendages, my love,’ said I.

‘Oh, Mr. Clinton, don’t be indecent; my modesty forbids.’

‘Julia,’ for I had ascertained her name, ‘take off those stupid hindrances to love’s free play, or, stay, let me take them off for you,’ and you would have laughed to have seen me executing this feat, for I lingered so long round her cunt every time I approached it, that it took me a good five minutes.

All this time Julia was fairly on heat, for the sight of my huge prick, as upright as a recruiting serjeant, would have excited Minerva herself.

‘Now, my darling,’ said I, ‘let us have a little eccentricity. I understand both you and your husband want a youngster; now just tell me does he ever have connection with you except in the old-fashioned way – belly to belly?’

‘Never, Mr. Clinton. How can there be any other method.’

‘Good God,’ said I, ‘what venal innocence. Look here, my pet, kneel down as if you were praying for a family.’ She did so.

‘Now, clutch the iron rail at the foot of the bed, and put the top of your head hard down on this pillow, as if you were going to try to stand on it.’

‘My dear, Mr. Clinton, why all these preliminaries; I’m dying for it.’

‘You shan’t have long to wait, my pretty one,’ for as she had minutely obeyed my instructions, her fair, round arse towered high in the bed, and I could just see the little seam of her vagina peeping at me from underneath.

Drawing back my foreskin until my best friend’s topnut stood out like a glistening globe, quivering with excitement, I cautiously approached her, for I would have it understood, gentle reader, that tyros in cohabitation should always be cool when engaged in this particular style of sport.

‘Straddle your knees slightly, my sweet one,’ I whispered.

‘For God’s sake hasten, Mr. Clinton, this delay is killing me.’

Drawing back once more to allow the candlelight to play on the spot, so that I could not miss my mark, I bulged forward, and got the tip well placed for the final rush, but Julia anticipated me by suddenly squatting backwards, and for the moment I thought bollocks and all had gone in.

Then commenced one of the most memorable fucks in my life’s long record, and certainly one of the most pleasurable.

Every time I felt the inclination to spend I purposely stayed myself on the threshold of bliss in order to prolong it.

At last, after Julia had saturated me three times, and was beginning to get pumped out, I brought all my forces to the charge, and giving several decisive lunges, which meant mischief, I fairly bathed her womb in boiling sperm, and the way that solid queenlike cunt closed on my prick, and held it as though we twain were one flesh, convinced me that the estate of Oatlands would in less than a year be
en fête
and the joybells of the old village steeple would ring out to tell of a birth at the Manor House.

‘In the meantime what had been going on in my own bedroom?’

It had fallen out precisely as I had predicted.

Hannah had sneaked upstairs, and had slid into my bed, and De Vaux, without speaking, had fucked her with the dash and genuine passion born of a three years’ forlorn hope.

Nor did he discover himself even after it was all over, but having in his ecstasy shagged her twice in ten minutes, he allowed her to escape, merely whispering in her ear, that he hoped she had enjoyed it.

Hannah, on the contrary, had found out the imposture the moment she got De Vaux’s prick in her. She had never felt but two, the coachman’s and mine, and De Vaux’s, although long and sinewy, was no match for either of ours in point of build, still it was better than not being fucked at all, and as De Vaux’s ardent imagination was riding Mrs. Leveson, the servant got all the benefit, and not only prudently preserved her incognito, but lifted her brawny arse in such rare style that De Vaux was more than satisfied.

In the morning I went in to see him before proceeding downstairs; he shook hands with me cordially.

‘Did she disappoint you?’ asked I, with feigned innocence.

‘My dear Clinton, she’s a perfect angel, and you’re a trump.’

Leveson came back the next day, and I never got another chance of landing Mrs. Leveson, who had fallen
enceinte
by me, and presented her husband with a son and heir nine months to the day.

De Vaux fondly imagines the kid must be his, and I am quite willing he should continue to think so, but every time Leveson compares dates he thinks of his night’s stay at Hull, shakes his head, and mutters that ‘it’s damned extraordinary,’ yet he wouldn’t consider it at all extraordinary, if he knew as much as we do, reader. ‘What do you think?’

The ‘gamahuching,’ process should only be employed as a preliminary and never should be permitted to go to the extent of more than starting the tap. No woman living is able to stand a moist and well-trained tongue. Even those in whom desire has long been dead have been known to shriek for the relief which only an erect penis can afford.

Jack Wilton, the greatest essayist on cunt in an analytical form who ever lived, goes further, and even says – ‘a judicious tongue can galvanize into life a female corpse.’

This, of course, I do not admit, but there is a well authenticated instance of a Somersetshire farmer’s wife, who had fallen into a trance, and was believed by all her neighbours to be dead, but who was recalled to life simply through the husband giving her fanny one last loving lick.

It is astonishing how prevalent the habit has become in England of gamahuching, and I would, while touching on it, maintain that there is nothing unnatural in it.

A tongue, soft and fleshy, fits in the vagina as though made for it, and though it can only titillate the clitoris, it serves the useful office of
avant courier
to the prick. The proof, if proof were wanting, that there is a distinct physical sympathy between the latter and the tongue, is that in the case of syphilis the tongue is affected almost as soon as the penis shows signs of having made a mistake. The proof again of its being natural to animal life is the fact that if one carefully observes the collection in the Zoo, it will be seen that when the beasts are in dalliance with one another the male invairably licks over the vagina of the female before proceeding to business.

This is my own observation, and if my readers doubt the statement, a run up to Regent’s Park, and a few hours in front of the cages will generally corroborate it.

I think to watch a man ‘gamahuching’ a woman is more exciting than to see her being absolutely poked.

I remember staying on one occasion at an hotel in Paddington where a very pretty chambermaid showed me my room. I had not extinguished my candle more than five minutes before I heard a woman’s voice in the next room, ‘Are you going to sit up reading all night?’

I couldn’t for the life of me understand this, and thought the wall must be very thin, but it arose from the fact that some distance up the oaken partition there was a hole, caused through a good-sized knot in the wood falling out, and although this hole had a coat hanging in front of it, I very speedily discovered it. It did not take me very long to remove the coat, and I saw the welcome light gleam through. Then, standing on a chair, I applied my eye to the hole, and saw a man leisurely undressing, and a ladylike-looking woman, about thirty, with a splendid head of hair, lying quietly in bed awaiting him.

Now, thought I, there is going to be some fun, when a slight knock at my own door caused me to get down and open it.

‘A telegram came for you two hours ago, sir, and they forgot to give it to you at the bar.’

One moment, my girl,’ said I, hastily slipping on my trousers, and then opening the door, I lighted my candle. The chambermaid was on the point of bolting.

‘Don’t go, my girl, said I, hastily, ‘there may be an answer to this, wait until I read it, and listen’ – then, lowering my voice to a significant whisper, ‘if you want to see a sight that will interest and amuse you, get on that chair and peep through the hole.’