Aphrodizzia Page 7

  “Suck the prick, Natasha,” he said gently as he fondled her. “In ten years time or less you'll be a bride- and your husband will certainly make you do it. You might just as well learn the art of it now!” Natasha gave a little whine of refusal. The boy drew his hand away. “In that case, Natasha, you must not expect the caresses of others.” She gave a cry of despair as the virulent erotic itch now reasserted its power, unappeased. In vain she tried to rub her cunt-lips between her legs. “Suck the prick, Natasha, if you want me to fondle you,” said the boy with a laugh. Natasha turned her head to the bars, the blue eyes and sulky young face so self-pitying under the blond fringe. The lad who presented his erection to her lips took the chignon of her soft hair and held her steady. As if obliged to avoid suffocation, Natasha opened her mouth and allowed the youthful penis to enter. The other boy returned his hand between her legs. He felt Natasha shudder with gratitude as the masturbation was resumed. Throughout the long summer afternoon, Julia and Natasha remained bending. Each boy who waited his turn to be sucked frigged his pupil, while his predecessor was tantalised by the loving lips and tongue. A girl who takes the spurts of male sperm down her throat is said in Berlin to “drink a toast to Cupid” or “to drink Cupid's milk.” So the gentle voices of that warm day charted the girls' progress in debauchery. “Suck the prick again, Julia…

  Natasha, drink another toast to Cupid… Wait for a moment, Julia. I must smack your bottom for you, you little whore!… Natasha! Drink another toast to Cupid!… No cheating, Julia! Swallow down your pride!… I had not the heart, dear Jack, to interrupt young love's innocent frolics! Between them, Julia and Natasha must have consumed almost a pint of Cupid's nourishment that afternoon. They returned and dined upon more orthodox victuals. When it was almost time to send them to bed, I ordered them instead to the fateful room with the convenient marble demonstration-table. Perhaps by now they were too weary even to protest at the removal of skirt and jeans, as well as their white stretched briefs. Yet it was not I, Jack, who attended them now. They were bathed with most orthodox warm water and soap, washed from toe to top and elegantly perfumed, by the hands of Sonja and Petra. There was no severity, you understand, only the most loving attention. They were like sisters together, rather than mistress and slave. From the next room I heard Sonja's gentle tones.

  “Turn over on your tummy now, Natasha! Relax the cheeks of your bottom properly, my little pet!” And then the washing and the towelling continued, followed by the perfume spray. Presently the voice resumed, more humourously. “What thick fleece between your legs, Julia! Open your thighs a little wider. We must trim some of that away. Lie still, my dear! No, I shall not shave it all away. But you must have it trimmed a little. Like this. You see? What was there to make such a fuss about?” You will draw your own conclusions, Jack, when I assure you that this “bathing session” lasted quite as long as the morning toilet had done. I will not weary you with the many unnecessary strokings and partings inflicted on our two young pupils by my own pair of bitches! I will only add this. Natasha and Julia occupy two single beds in the same room. The next morning, the maid reported to me a curious fact. (She is an old family servant and utterly to be trusted.) One of the beds had not been slept in. The sheets of the other were much disordered and bore upon them the sort of blemishes which she had never been accustomed to find except when passionate young married couples had been our guests. As for the rest, I have now had Julia and Natasha on the marble table every morning for a week and my routine never varies. The doors of all other such rooms are locked against them and the key is in my pocket. Their protests and struggles grow less each day. I swear they are learning the gratification of their own wetness on the sponge and of the soapy finger which enforces the performance of certain acts. Despite her high-school education, Julia has the tastes of a whore, and Natasha may be trained the same way. They will not, of course, become whores-unless slavery to one master under captivity be such! But only think, Jack, of what I said at the beginning. Had I begged them to take down their knickers and let me fiddle with them, to have sex-fun with them, as they say… Imagine! Parents, teachers, police would have vied with one another to destroy me. But I talk only of cleanliness and decency, of manners and discipline. What is the result? Each morning the girls wallow in the grossest lewdness on the marble table. Their arseholes are opened on the soapy finger and the gloved hands receive the tribute. They are sponged over in their own fountain-water and then perfumed so heavily that a French brothel would wince at its power. They are left powdered with an irritant that drives them to masturbation on the table as soon as I leave the room.

  And yet I am spoken of as a martinet, a lady of irreproachable moral strictness and personal severity. Parents, teachers, and police are my greatest admirers. Profit by my example, dearest Jack, for in it lies your only true safety and pleasure! I almost persuade myself that I really am a moralist-and no libertine, after all! Your loving Dolly.

  SIX

  Jack and his German nymphs-Elke, a randy young Austrian girl-Her love of frisky stories-New antics with the boys of the neighbouring school for young gentlemen-Her wicked fun with Master Algernon-Algy trapped bending through a wooden beach-groin in bathing drawers-Elke's cruel amusements with him-Gingering-up Algy with a sting-fish in his pants-The remarkable effect on his young prick of the stings and Elke's lewd finger-The wheel of fate turns-Sixteen-year-old Elke caught bending-Her pants down for the schoolboys' lewd revenge-Left to her fate-English moralists outraged at her naked wantonness-Their resolve stiffened at the sight-Elke's impalement-Her first taste of a good old English birch! Dearest Dolly, I need hardly describe my delight in reading your latest letter.

  The moral discipline which you have devised for Julia and Natasha is just what those two little minxes deserve! My only regret is that I dare not show the letter and share the amusement with even my closest friends. Not everyone would be as quick to congratulate you on your moral zeal as I shall be. Yet it would be a sin to destroy such a delightful account of the little bitches being trained to obedience.

  Therefore I propose to lock it safely away with instructions to our friend Professor J- to publish this and the rest of the correspondence when circumstances permit.**He has now done so!-Editor. If I tell you that my adventures here with the German and Austrian girls are proving no less remarkable than yours, you may hold me guilty of exaggeration. Yet since I last wrote, there has occurred an incident which would have brought joy to the heart of Rabelais and wild mirth to the spirit of the Comte de Sade.

  Perhaps you will more readily believe me if I tell you that it involves our sixteen-year-old Austrian pupil, Elke. As you well know, she is an eager little sensualist with no idea of morals in any sense of that word. You will easily recognise her from the photographs of the girls which accompany this letter. Elke is the one of medium height with the straight brown hair cut short at her collar, the insolently pouting mouth, the heart-shaped face with its high cheek-bones which forms an ideal setting for her sly hazel eyes.

  The photograph does not, of course, show much of the little tart's conduct! Yet her disposition is clear to anyone who watches her walking down to the beach with a pair of leather jacketed German youths from a similar institution. Elke likes to show off her young figure in the tightly-stretched wool of a short black jumper and a pair of even tighter, though faded, riding-jeans of blue denim. The black wool clearly outlines the proud young shape of her breasts. From the rear, the tight denim shows an adolescent fullness, the ripe soft cheeks of Elke's backside. You think I am severe in my account of the girl, Dolly? You protest that she may be just a high-spirited teenager? Let me show you, by example, what her tastes are! As you know, I like to make the girls in my care study closely such accounts of English life as Master Miles's reformatory memoirs. Yet I take precaution that the more spirited adventures of Beatrice, Eveline, Birch in the Boudoir, Captain DeVane, Laura, or The Days at Florville, remain on the top shelf behind locks and wires, for fear they should make pr
etty maidens blush! The other night, long past the witching-hour, I was musing in my study when I heard the sound of a footfall in the corridor. Who was the nightwalker, creeping past so stealthily? You may be sure that I moved softly to spy upon the creature! Having turned out the light, I saw nothing at first but an obscure figure moving cautiously ahead of me. The door of the library opened and closed. Then the light was turned on in the room. I slipped out into the garden and along the path, knowing that this would give me an excellent view through the window of the library. Can you guess what I saw? No one would call Elke a studious girl. Yet there she was at her studies! As I watched, I saw her run her fingers along an upper shelf where I keep the key to my collection. Do not ask me how she knew where to find it, for I have no idea. Then, fetching a stool to stand upon, she stepped up, unlocked the doors of wire mesh, and took down a racy volume. To my delight, she came and sat in a leather chair with her back to the uncurtained window, so close that I could see quite clearly what she was reading. It was the Memoirs of the scapegrace Captain De-Vane. Do you recall, Dolly, how he took two girls from reformatory or finishing school on a voyage? Do you recall them? Sandra Williams the tomboy of fifteen with her appealing innocence, brown hair loose and lank to her shoulders, the muddy pallor of her skin, the quick smile and ready courtesy of her blue eyes? She was one of them. The younger girl was Linda Jennings, a sly, sensuous little blonde with a soft pale beauty, blue-eyed and with a short mane of fair hair worn forward on her lapel. Elke opened the book and her finger ran under the lines of print as she followed the story. Sandra, stripped to her white breast-halter and elasticated briefs, was DeVane's cabin-girl for the voyage. Randy young Linda was his bed-slave. Sandra was to spend most of the voyage lying bottom-upwards over his bunk with her knickers round her knees. Many a morning Linda slept until noon, exhausted by the night's antics. A charming picture she made, sprawled on her belly over the pillows, the vaseline jar, roll of tissue, and cane still lying with her discarded knickers on the table. As our randy little blonde dozed the morning away, the soft mane of hair pressed to her mouth, the traces of the night's orgies were still visible. In sleep, Linda licks her lips as if still able to taste her lover's passion upon them. A certain sheen between her thighs tells of spent desire. Though she has wiped off most of the vaseline on the sheets of tissue which strew the floor, a fugitive smear still gleams between her buttocks. Nor can she conceal the prints of bamboo across her pearly little bottom. Elke read at breakneck speed, her finger racing under the lines of the pages.

  Alas, she shows nothing like this skill when the immortal works of William Shakespeare or Lord Byron are set before her! Often she returned and read over again the spicier passages of Captain DeVane!

  At last she let the book fall to the floor and I saw that one hand had been thrust down into the waistband of her pants and that she was fondling herself. The fingers moved in a long steady rhythm. Her mouth opened, lips parting a little and tongue running along them repeatedly and lasciviously. She breathed more deeply in her labour of love. The sly hazel eyes closed lightly, opened again, and then closed once more in a languorous dream of bliss. Curled on her side in the capacious leather chair, Elke masturbated like this for almost an hour. Twice she had her orgasm with faint shuddering whimpers. I can assure you that she lubricated greatly with the excitement which the book had provoked, for the moisture on the leather chair was still there after she had turned out the light and left. It was, perhaps, partly the sweat of her exertion in the warm night but not entirely that. I tell you all this, Dolly, that you may more readily understand the adventure which followed it the next afternoon. At a little distance from us there is a school for England's future prime ministers, judges, field-marshals, and bishops. The boys who attend it are of the best families, arriving at thirteen and leaving for the two Universities, the army, or the imperial service when they are eighteen. Now, you may be sure that the venerable Dr. Thwackum (as I call him) takes good care that his young gentlemen shall not be contaminated by mingling with hoi polloi-or {Greek} as his scholars are more properly taught to inscribe it. Where the beach belonging to the school ends there is a wooden groin running down to low-water.

  Unlike the other groins, it is quite six feet high and topped by broken glass! But, Dolly,-boys will be boys! Here and there a hole appears in the wood, large enough for a lad of fourteen or fifteen to squeeze through feet first. Off he goes to smoke cigarettes on the sly, to peep through his little spy-glass at girls bathing, in fact to do all those things which would incur a severe birching from the reverend headmaster if they were ever detected. It may not surprise you to know that such girls as Elke also creep up to the hole in the wooden groin, in order to spy upon the boys at their bathing.

  Ah, perchance to catch a sight of a young penis, as if a glimpse of the bulous monster were precious as that of a unicorn! Master Algernon, the son of a cabinet minister, is an innocent enough lad with a turn for imagination and poetry. He is, I believe, somewhere in his fifteenth year. You might see him in the school grounds, wearing the traditional broad white band of the Eton collar, the short black jacket-known as a “bum freezer”-and striped trousers. Yet these would have been quite out of place when bathing. Yesterday afternoon was a glorious summer scene, the heat intense as it never is in England except during July. The low tide glittered along the Sussex shore, far beyond the damp sand, and the Channel was calm as a lake in the strong light. Elke and her two German swains had gone down to the beach together, just where the groin divided the school grounds from the public domain. The shingle and the sand lay deserted just there and seemed ideal for their amorous encounter. Master Algernon knew nothing of this. A fresh-faced boy with cherubic curls, he had been bathing far down by the tide and now returned up the beach with the thin white cotton of his drawers clinging to him so wetly that it was almost transparent. At that moment, the place being so deserted, he seems to have thought it safe to take a little stroll along the public beach. What sights there might be to serve his imagination when next he pumped his young organ. To negotiate the hole in the groin, which was two feet or so from the ground, it was necessary to put one leg through first, then the other, and finally to draw his torso through with arms extended. It was Elke who watched with growing curiosity as Master Algernon's first leg appeared through the hole.

  She walked across and saw the second leg appear, the boy now bending through the gap. From the waist down he was on her side, his arms, head, and torso still on the other. When Elke glanced round, she saw that her two boy-friends had begun to walk away along the beach, not having seen what she was doing. For at least two miles, where the shore ran away from the town, there was no sign of any other person approaching. With vindictive glee, Elke drew the belt from the waist of her tight jeans. Even free of it they were in no danger of falling down. With quick fingers, she drew the belt round Master Algernon's waist, also running it round the metal pins of the groin on either flank as she pulled it tight and buckled it. The result was that he found suddenly he could not move either forward or back. When he tried to reach back with his hands, Elke picked up the ends of the mooring-cord which the boatmen discarded along the pebbles and noosed his wrists together behind his back. It has all happened with such speed that Master Algernon seemed utterly dumbstruck. He now bent helplessly through the hole, the wet bathing drawers showing his buttocks and upper thighs pinkly through thin white cotton. “I say!” he gasped urgently, “Look here! I say! Don't go and get a fellow into trouble! Please! I shall be most dreadfully swished if they catch me like this! Do be a sport! Please!” But Elke merely gave a sulky little pout with her mouth and began to take off her jeans and panties. Algy tried in vain to twist round and see what she was doing but the wooden groin blocked his view. Elke put her jeans back on again but she held the cotton briefs in her hand. Reaching through, she presented these knickers to Master Algernon's face. The poor fellow blushed at the mere sight of them. “You will wear my panties in your mouth,” said Elke petulant
ly, “Or else I will leave you like this and tell your masters where to find you-with your drawers pulled down and your prick out.” “By Jove!” cried Algy in alarm, “Now, see here! Don't you think you'll get away with this, young lady! Don't you imagine for one minute…” The rest of his oration was lost, for Elke had pinched his nose and obliged him to open his mouth for breath still wider. “Let goth of by nothe!” he gabbled, “Let goth, you thucking little whoreth…” But now the panties were crammed in his mouth and Elke was running a rope between his teeth to keep them in place. The shrill violence of the sounds behind the gag were Algernon's vain promises that his father was a minister of the crown and that he would have Elke confined in the cruellest reformatory for ten years to come! Leaving him, muted and bound as he bent helplessly through the hole in the groin, the Austrian girl walked down the beach towards the tide until she found the thing that she was looking for. It was almost like a colourless mass of jelly. She collected it with care on a sheet of driftwood. As she stood behind the boy and he saw what she was holding, Master Algernon went nearly frantic. The sting of the jelly-fish known as a Portuguese Man-of-War was scarcely less than the tortures of the Inquisition. This specimen on the driftwood was still visibly alive and moving. Master Algy's cherub curls twisted and the blue eyes above his gag bulged with apprehension. Though bending, he performed a side-to-side dance with his legs and hips, as if to avoid what was going to be done to him. Elke put down the board. She drew his young prick and balls out through the front vent of his drawers, the young penis stiffening a little despite his predicament. Then she held him by the balls and used them as a bridle to hold him still or move him as she chose. You may be sure that Algernon had never been handled by a girl before and that the experience was not entirely disagreeable to him. A thoughtful frown clouded Elke's sixteen-year-old face. She slid a hand into the back of his drawers and tickled the boy's bottom-hole. At this, Algernon's young prick rose stiff as a mainmast. Elke scolded him for a dirty wretch. She lifted up the pale jelly-fish on its board, opened the back of Algernon's pants again, and tipped the slithering mass into the seat.