EROTICON 3
Introduced and edited by
J-P SPENCER
Eroticon 3 published in 1989 & 2001 by Nexus. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Avid eBooks.
Smashwords Edition
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This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright J-P Spencer. The right of J-P Spencer to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Readers of the previous two books in this series of erotic anthologies will be familiar with the format of this present volume. Eroticon III presents a further sample of titillating writings composed by a variety of hands. However, the profile of the average pornographer does not change .and it is reasonable to assume that all the authors whose work is included here are male mercenaries whose identities have been deliberately obscured. Followers of the series and readers knowledgeable in this field will recognise the obvious exceptions: Andrea de Nerciat the frustrated soldier/dramatist, author of The Pleasures of Lolotte and other erotic novels, who died miserably at the dawn of the nineteenth century after a period of incarceration in Rome's notorious Castel Saint Angelo; the Comte de Mirabeau, the great orator of the French Revolution and a hero of the people, who relieved the boredom of his own imprisonment by writing, among other erotic masterpieces, The Lifted Curtain; and, of course, the enigmatic 'Walter', Victorian England's most notorious libertine by virtue of his My Secret Life, the most exhaustive and exhausting sex diary in the canon of erotic writing. (The selections from My Secret Life that are given here, as in previous volumes, are from that portion of the work not available in the traditional British publishing territories.)
The pieces selected have been written exclusively to sexually arouse the reader (and assessment of their worth, like that of sexual activity itself, is a purely personal judgement) but if one cares to look beyond the breathless coupling of the protagonists in the foreground, it is interesting to note the background settings that have been chosen. With one exception here those settings are European - from an eighteenth century French convent to a Turkish harem, from a sun-soaked Spanish beach to, inevitably and frequently, the boudoirs of Paris. Though the origins of many of these excerpts are American, only one selection is set in the New World - obviously the old one is considered to be more erotically inspiring!
This American selection is taken from The Devil's Advocate - also published in the United States under the title The Sign of the Scorpion - a novel with a mystery theme and a hard-boiled style that echoes Raymond Chandler. The central relationship in the book, between a cynical lawyer and the naive young beauty who involves him in her search for her missing sister, is a fascinating example of a classic theme of erotic writing - the corruption of an innocence that secretly desires such corruption. The excerpt chosen here, however, is a set piece sexual encounter in the lawyer's fly-blown office - and innocence definitely does not come into it! For that the inquisitive reader must turn to the full-length novel - a course of action recommended, where possible, in every case. It is worth remembering that the excerpts chosen are simply samples of whole works and it is to be hoped that they will whet rather than satiate the literary appetite.
J-P Spencer
After breakfast I wandered along the Parade. I watched the sea and the boats. One old boatman interested me.
'Go for a row, miss? Beautiful mornin', miss. Sea like ile. Launch her down in half a jiffy, miss. Pull alongshore and see the bathin'.'
The loveliness of the day tempted me.
'Which is your boat, my friend?'
'That's she, miss. Yon white one, with the red streak.'
'She looks a safe craft. Does she rock about much?'
'Lor' bless your sweet soul! No, miss! Why look at her grand flat bottom, and her fine run aft! She can travel too. She's got legs on her! You should have seen her at the regatta. Better have an hour's row, miss.'
I got into the boat. The Locket, David Jones of Eastbourne, was painted on the board against which I leaned. It was a nice big boat with good cushions in clean white covers. The old man pushed off and jumped in.
'You'll go past the machines, miss, o' coorse?'
'Anywhere you like, Mr David Jones. I have confidence in you. It is quite warm on the water.'
'Yes, miss. These are the ladies' machines. The gents' is further hup. We shall have to pass the ladies fust, but it won't take long.'
'Where are you going then, Mr Jones?'
'Why, o' coorse - past the gents. All the ladies goes past in my boat. 'Tis what they likes best - as is nat'ral. That's what they takes the row for.'
The old fellow grinned. He screwed up his face into a comical expression. He actually winked.
The boat did travel well, as the poor old fellow said. It only took ten minutes to pass the line of gaudily arrayed, tall, angular female figures, of squalling children and shouting girls bobbing about knee-deep with their 'flat bottoms and fine runs aft' presented seawards.
'What a number of people on the beach, Mr Jones!'
'Yes, miss. They allus comes there to look at the ladies.'
'I don't see very much to admire, but then perhaps it's because I'm a woman.'
'Jus' so, miss. You wait a bit. It's all right, I knows what the ladies like.'
Presently we passed the first of the men's bathing machines. Old Jones had pulled in closer.
'There we are, miss! Fine 'uns too among 'em today!'
I laughed - the idea was so crudely expressed. The fact was so evident that this was only an ordinary exercise on the part of the girls that I shook off the awkward feeling of restraint which troubled me. I looked boldly enough now. The men stood upon the machines with the door open. They seemed to be employed principally in sawing their backs in a painful manner with bath towels. They were absolutely naked; their figures entirely and unblushingly exposed. Indeed when they saw me pass along with the old fellow they took special pains to exhibit themselves, their privates wagging proudly about in front.
'That's a fine 'un; ain't he, miss?'
I gazed in the direction in which the old man nodded his head as the boat glided by. I thought he even seemed to row slower as we passed. It was a tall man - white, handsome, well-developed - a patch of dark hair on his belly - a huge instrument of pleasure dangling between his thighs.
I held my breath. I noted the man well. I also observed the number of the machine - it was 33.
'Ah, he's a fine man, he is, miss, but he ain't half as fine a made man as what my son is. He's a sailor, miss, aboard of a big four-masted ship, he is, and comin' home tomorrow. He's been round the Horn to Valparaiso and he's been took very bad along of the Horn and the weather. He's been paid off today, and he's comin' down here to see his old dad again. I 'spects him by the first train. He's been ten months away, but he's bound straight here, for he's a good lad and nothing wouldn't stop him in Lunnon.'
'Dear me, Mr Jones, you quite interest me. And you think he would not stay to spend any of his money among the pleasures of London? He must be quite a model young man. I'm sure you must be proud of him.'
'I am that, miss. Not that he's much of a muddle either - he's fond of his old father, but he's fond of a pretty gal too. He'll be here tomorrow, then you can tell me if I'm right or not. Lor', miss, you should just see him pull these oars about. He used to make The Locket fly, he did! I fear I won't keep him here long. Not that he wouldn't go to sea again, but he'll get rid of his money among the gals here. They'll all be after him like they was afore.'
'What a sad thing, Mr Jones. Don't you give him good advice?'
'So I used to do, miss. But Lor' luv yer, what's the good; lions wouldn't hold him, miss, he's that hot when he gets ashore. I got the missionary to reason with him, but it wasn't no good. He went about just the same again. No, miss, wild helephants couldn't hold him.'
'I think, perhaps, if you removed him from such temptations; if you kept him to your boat-letting business now, under your own eye, you know, Mr Jones, don't you think that might tame him down a bit?'
'P'raps it might, miss, if he'd anyone to read and talk serious to him, but I don't know no one; and he's that quick and impatient—'
'You make me feel very much for your poor son, Mr Jones. I shall come round in the morning, and if he's there then I should be pleased to talk to him on his duty to his parents.'
'I've been a widderer these twenty year come Michaelmas, so there's only me to look after the lad. He's more fit to look after me now. There's one thing I likes about him. He don't drink.'
I had one of my headaches next morning. I have not always the remedy for them at hand. On this occasion I had left it in London. I thought the air along the sea front might do me good. After breakfast I strolled along the Parade to the far corner where Mr Jones - who, by the by, was not a Welshman but a native of Sussex - had his boat.
'Good morning, Mr Jones. I see you are an advocate of cleanliness. Your Locket looks splendid, after the scrubbing you are giving her.'
A fine, tall, young fellow, fair and freckled, with his short curly hair shaded his broad forehead, wielded a mop which belaboured the bottom and sides of the upturned skiff. His legs were bare to the knees. He stood like an old Northern Viking, a splendid specimen of the Anglo-Saxon race. The heavy bucket might have contained only waste paper from the manner in which he shifted it about, charged to the brim with sea water. He almost dropped it, however, as he turned and saw me. His mouth opened. He stood stupidly staring at me from behind his old father. I recognised the youth at once.
'Good mornin', miss. I don't know nothin' about no advocates, miss, but my son Bill is just a givin' her a rub round as we was a thinkin', the mornin' being so fine, I might see a young lady down for a row.'
He had a twinkle in his eye which conveyed silent hope that the liberal fee he had received the previous day might be repeated.
'So this is your son, is it, Mr Jones? He must be of great service to you now you have got him.'
'Oh, yes, miss - he's a main stronger nor me. You should see him capsize that there butt all alone by hisself. Why a rhinersorous couldn't do it!'
The old boatman was brimming over with pride - satisfaction at recovering his long-absent son betrayed itself in every feature.
'You must be very glad to see your father again.'
'Yes, so I am, miss, and to find him so well and hearty. You see, miss, he's getting on now. It ain't as I'm so awful strong - it's that my old dad is gettin' a bit shaky in his timbers, miss.'
There was something charming in the kindly smile, and the rough, yet tender, manner of the blunt young sailor towards the old man which made me look him over more attentively. He was certainly a superbly built young fellow. His bare arms and legs were furnished with a muscular development which is rare in these days of effeminacy. A vigorous, healthy life upon the ocean had served to enhance all his natural advantages. He was a man to my mind. My headache increased - I wanted him badly to cure it.
Between them, they turned the boat over again. It was a good substantial skiff. I had been used to boating with Percy as a child. I knew something about rowing. I used to astonish the girls at the pensionnat near Paris when we all went in a formal party down the Seine from Suresnes. It suited me now to pretend ignorance.
'I hope you will stop with your dad, and - and be a good boy. He tells me you are too fond of - of pleasure.'
My manner was demure. I flashed him one of my glances. He seemed struck. There is - they say - a Freemasonry in love. I say there is more. There is a magnetism in love which is conveyed from mind to mind - from brain to brain - from heart to heart, if you will - but there is a power, subtle and irresistible, which speaks more powerfully than words. 'I love you, I want you.' Such was the influence which flashed between us now.
'We sailors don't get too much pleasuring, miss - but I've been ten months at sea, shut up in an old box of a ship all the time, four hours out and four hours in - and that's about the size of it. My dad ain't the man to deny me a fair run ashore now I'm home again. I know how to take care of the rhino all the same, but I mean to stay some time with him now and I shan't trouble about shipping again yet awhile.'
There was a half serious, half comical air about the young fellow which showed he only partly believed in me. His keen blue eye followed me. He was noting me well from head to foot. He was distinctly struck with my appearance. Admiration was plainly, visibly written in his look. I read him like a book. I was a revelation to the young sailor. No doubt his appetite was sharp after ten long months at sea. I inwardly rejoiced. Meanwhile the boat was ready, the cushions in their places.
'If you've a mind for a row, miss, my son. Bill will go with you and pull you about in the butt anywhere you likes.'
I got into the boat. They launched her down. Bill swung himself in over the bow. He backed her out from the smooth beach. Then he sat himself down facing me and began to row steadily away from the shore.
'I really don't know if I ought to trust myself all alone with such a gay young man as your dad describes you, Mr William, but after all he does not give you a bad character, though he does say you are somewhat - somewhat - what shall I say?'
'Oh, I know, he's a larky old customer, is my dad, and he thinks I'm not much steadier than he was when he was a young 'un. Which course shall we steer, miss - go along the Pevensey shore, or keep on out of the Bay a bit?'
'Let us get into deep water and right away from the sound of the noisy people ashore. How fast you row!'
He was pulling as if for a wager. We were already half a mile away, heading straight out to sea. He slacked a little as I spoke. All this time his gaze never left my person or my face. He was trying to sum me up. Speculating, probably, as to what sort of bedfellow I should make. He was very good-looking certainly. As he bent forward to his paddles, his loose shirt disclosed his broad chest covered with a fine sandy down. I felt impatient as I sat on the broad seat with a back to it. I faced him all the time. I sat cross-legged, my right knee over the left. As Bill pulled away at the paddles, my leg was jerked backwards and forwards. I took care he should have a good view of my feet and my stockings as well. I soon fascinated him. The black silk seemed a new sensation. He commenced to row still more unevenly. My leg moved in cadence. He could see at times up to my knee as the light breeze assisted his design. He was evidently getting excited. A strong lascivious expression extended itself over his features.
'So you have been shut up ten months on board ship, Bill? That must have been trying to a fine young man like you?'
I could not beat about the bush. I wanted him. I meant to indulge my inclination - to have him. It was no time to waste in mere sentiment - in childish trifling.
'I guess it was, miss. Never saw a petticoat for over four months. We were not allowed ashore at Valparaiso, only in the daytime. It's a queer hole for British seamen, miss; nothing but rows and robbery.'
'Poor fellow! But of course you have a sweetheart here?'
'Not I, miss. I only came home last night, or rather early this morning. I couldn't stop in London with the poor old dad here and he so old and feeble-like, so I jumped into the first train I could.'
'You are a good fellow, Bill. I like you very much.
What a long way we are from the shore now! I can't see the pier any more.'
'We're over two miles from Eastbourne now. See that light-ship there - that's the Royal Sovereign shoal.'
'How lovely it seems - how calm the sea is! We need not go any further out. You might not be able to get back, Bill.'
'I only wish I couldn't!'
'Why so, Bill?'
'Because I haven't had the chance to see a face like yours in all my life, miss! There - now it's out!'
'Oh, Bill! You don't mean that? Come and sit here and tell me all about it.'
I made room for him beside me on the broad seat with the backboard. The words 'David Jones' were quite obliterated by our figures. Bill took up a rope and began undoing the end into four separate cords. Then he got the other end of the same rope, and served it the same. I watched him. Then he put two ends together, the four cords of each end interlacing.
'Why Bill! What do you call that?'
'That's what we sailors call making a splice, miss - when it's done.'
'Do you ever think of being spliced yourself, Bill?'
'Sometimes, but sailors ought never to be properly spliced up, miss. There ought to be a slippery hitch somewhere. They're awfully true when spliced, but the gals ain't. They can't stand the long absences.'
'Can you make a slippery hitch, Bill?'
He laughed. We both laughed. I looked into his eyes. He returned my gaze. I put my hand on his thigh. He slipped his left arm round my waist. He had dropped the rope now. We sat quiet a moment. The only sound we could hear was the low gurgling of the placid sea under the boat's bows and sides, as she lay idly rolling on the gentle swell.
'We are quite alone here, Bill - not a boat anywhere.'
He had white canvas trousers on, turned up to his knees. My hand stole along until it was suddenly arrested by something hard and solid between his legs which lay along the inside of his left thigh. I lifted my face up close to his. Instantly he kissed me on the mouth.
'Oh, Bill! Oh, you bad boy!'
He seized me tightly in his arms. He covered me with kisses. He pressed my bosom with his great sailor hand. I closed my eyes and suffered all. 'Make me a slippery hitch, Bill dear!'
He pressed me again tighter than ever. My fingers pressed his limb. It seemed tremendously thick and stiff.
'Ten months! Only think, Bill, how bad you must feel!'
His hand was already on my leg. As I spoke it moved further up. I opened my legs and let it pass. Meanwhile I deliberately unbuttoned his canvas flap.
'I want to look at it, Bill!'
'So you shall, my dear. It's a whopper!'
A moment later, a huge naked limb stiffly erect and throbbing with eagerness for enjoyment was in my grasp. His hand had already taken possession of the centre of my desires. His fingers maddened me. Without more ado, I pulled the big member into the warm daylight. It was a beauty! White and red, with a large soft top and hard sides - very long and awfully stiff. We rolled about together in this position as the boat answered to the undulations of the sea. It could not last so, however, and so it came to pass that I slipped, cushion and all, off the seat. Bill and I found ourselves on the floor-boards of the skiff with the cushion under us. I still retained my hold of his limb. He reached out and secured another cushion which be placed under my loins. Then he tilted me back. He pulled up my clothes. I am afraid I helped him. He took one look at my exposed legs at my white belly. I saw for a second his big truncheon menacing me within a few inches of my thighs. Then he threw himself upon me. I was quite as eager as he was. I helped him to his pleasure. The lewd business was about to begin - the curtain was up - the actor and the actress were on the stage.
'Oh! Oh! Bill - you hurt! Oh! Oh! You're right into me! You're too big! You're - Oh! - Oh! -Oh! My goodness, Bill!'
Nothing stopped him. The young fellow had had a long fast. I was getting the full benefit of his abstention. He pushed his great tool into me to his balls. He never spoke, but he set his teeth together. He worked up and down, thrusting at me like a battering ram. In less time than it takes to relate he sank on my chest. I felt a sudden gush of hot seed. I knew that his pleasure had reached the climax. He lay discharging, until a flood of thick sperm deluged my interior. My own pleasure was supreme. He gave me no rest. Instead of withdrawing, he recommenced. A few thrusts, aided by the natural elasticity of my vagina, restored him to all his virility. He commenced another course. Oh, the impatient fellow! How he worked me!
'Oh! Bill, dear Bill! Go slowly - do it gently, Bill! Oh, oh! You'll know the bottom of the boat out! Oh, my goodness! Oh!'
'Boat be damned!' was the polite rejoinder.
At last he got up. He adjusted his clothes. He wiped his smoking member. I raised myself on my cushions. I dipped my handkerchief into the cool sea-water and sopped up all I could of the tremendous overflow I had received. I made the best toilette possible under the circumstances.
'We can sail back easy. The wind is almost dead fair. Then we can sit together. Do you feel jolly now, my dear love?'
There was something that touched me beyond simple lust in this young fellow. There was an innate tenderness towards 'his gal,' to which they say sailors are particularly prone, just as one makes a pet of a dog.
I have heard of sailors at Portsmouth newly discharged from their ships and envious of married men who had found a ready-made progeny on their return, seeking to emulate them by hiring babies to carry up and down the Yard. I can quite believe it.
Bill set to work. In two minutes the mast was stepped; in two more the sail was hoisted and set, and the sheet, as he called it, hauled aft. The skiff sailed along merrily - too quickly I thought, as I sat on the cushioned floor of the boat with my head on the thigh of the young sailor who held the tiller. My restless fingers would not remain quiet. They sought their playfellow. Bill opened his flap. I pulled out his stiffening limb.
'Oh, Bill! What a big one! Do you feel any better now?'
'Why, yes, my lovely dear one, of course I do, and I'm damned grateful to you for the chance, miss. But I wish - that I do - we were not going to part so soon. I should like to have you all night.'
'Oh, Bill! A pretty thing you'd make of me by morning!'
His limb rose again under the skilful touches of my nimble fingers. As I sat, my face was just on a level with his erect weapon. He held the tiller in one hand; with the other he caressed my neck and bosom. I bent forward. I examined minutely his splendid limb from end to end. I put my hand under and felt his testicles. I tickled him lusciously. I put the tip of the broad nut to my lips. I kissed it. I opened them - it entered. I sucked it. I rolled my hot tongue round the red head.
'Oh! Oh! Little lass! You are driving me mad, don't ye know! Stop a moment. Here, come stern on. I'll arrange all in the twinkling of a handspike. Now sit down between my legs. So! Oh, my God!'
He pulled me backwards. He had already raised my clothes. My buttocks were exposed to his salacious view. I settled myself down upon his thighs. I felt his thing pressing in between my pliant globes. The big knob was jammed between them. I put down my right hand. I placed his weapon between the moist lips of my little slit. I pressed down.
'Oh! Damn my eyes and limbs! My bowsprit's run you aboard, missy! It's right into you up to the gammoning! Oh, isn't it lovely?'
He seized me round the hips. He pushed home. With my left hand, I tickled his testicles. His big limb stretched me tremendously. I enjoyed it all the same. I shared his transports. I was mad with lust. I jogged up and down. My spasms came all too soon. I ceased moving. I could only moan now. Bill took up the movements. He pushed with fury.
'Oh, Bill! You'll upset the boat!'
'Upset the soup, you mean? There it goes! Enough for all hands!'
Truly the vigour of this active young sailor was tremendous. He had been ten months, remember, without copulation. His excitement, doubtless his enjoyment, was proportionate to the length of his abstinence. I was really glad when the boat's keel touched land.
Casilda had sunk into a reverie. She even ignored her tepid little drink, and sat bemused, staring into space. I mentioned half a dozen restaurants by name; and pushed the evening paper, with the list of cinemas, in front of her eyes. But they were fixed, vacantly, on a point past my right shoulder, and when at last she spoke, I could barely catch the words, they were uttered so softly, under her breath.
'Yes, I do, too - I know what I'd like. It's over there in the corner. Daddy, buy me that.'
I followed her gaze the length of the bar. At the other end, facing towards us with an evidently keen interest in Casilda, sat a hulking, swarthy young dago in a flamboyant brown suit, with vastly padded shoulders and an air of almost insolent admiration. Casilda, I am sorry to say, was giving him very much the same look in return.
'You can't mean that seriously,' I exclaimed - as a statement of fact, not a question. For one thing, he sported the sort of moustache that might have been drawn with an eyebrow-pencil an inch below his nostrils.
Casilda merely nodded, but as an affirmative gesture it was all too definite. Any doubt in my mind was pure wishful thinking.
'I thought you said you didn't go in for gigolos,' I protested.
The girl gave a snort of mirth. 'Nor do I,' she agreed. 'But I can have this one for free, I assure you - if you'll let me. And you could watch,' she added in the same quiet tone, scarcely above a whisper. 'Wouldn't that excite you?' Her face was set, almost sullen.
There was silence between us for a moment. I needed time to think, to ponder this startling proposition. Without a word I paid the bill, kissed her cheek and walked out, bowing stiffly to the baffled foreigner, who hastily returned my salute with joyful bewilderment.
Was he any less puzzled on the back seat of the car, after an unceremonious introduction as 'My toreador,' while we drove towards Chelsea, with Casilda, happy and tense, nestling against my shoulder, her hand on my knee? He had a smattering of English - enough to gargle polite assent when Casilda asked him if this was his first visit to London, but her next question - 'Have you ever been kidnapped before?' - virtually drew a blank.
'Very pretty,' he assured us.
'Isn't he, though?' Casilda murmured, hugging my arm. 'He's a matador, you know,' she insisted.
'More like a picador, to judge by his looks,' I retorted. 'What are you going to do with this tough when you get him home?'
'The best he can,' said Casilda.
He chose whisky and accepted with alacrity an invitation from Casilda in French to be shown the house. I poured myself a big dollop of brandy, and settled down to read a couple of letters that the postman had brought. To this day I could not tell you what was in them. A few agonising minutes' wait was as much as I could bear.
They were not next door. She had led him off to the spare room upstairs - which was very considerate of her. He was kneeling with his back to me as I entered, his face pressed against her navel. She sat, naked to the waist, on the high fourposter, with an arm around his bull neck, twisting his greasy curls. She took no notice of me whatsoever, and her conquest, oblivious of all else but the free gift of this magnificent body, did not even hear me come in. I lit the fire for them, and slipped into an easy chair nearby to contemplate the scene.
He had evidently set about his business without a second's hesitation. The square, exaggeratedly masculine shoulders obscured her lower half from view, while his bent head was sunk in the hollow of her lap, and blindly, with both brown, hairy paws upstretched, he mauled, rather than fondled, Casilda's breasts. The way the fellow manhandled those sumptuous tits struck me as exceedingly rough and uncouth for a Latin lover: he plucked and tweaked and tugged at them, like some famished urchin snatching oranges from a tree. Nevertheless there was no sign of objection or complaint on her part; she kept her mouth shut tight and made not a sound, except for the fast, heavy breathing that shook her whole frame more violently from within, it seemed, than the harsh treatment to which this clumsy lout was subjecting her shapely face.
She did not budge or flicker an eyelid. Yet if she, in rigid submission, might have withstood his bold assault indefinitely, it was clear that the hot-blooded Spaniard could brook no further delay. Muttering with impatience, the coarse creature sprang to his feet and started to tear the rest of her clothes off. She helped him then at once, promptly raising a docile backside to facilitate the complete removal of her rumpled dress and skintight panties, while she herself took off her fetching little suspender belt and stockings. As she leaned forward to do so, she suddenly, as I saw, undid his fly and I too had the same impulse of unrestrainable curiosity, though for a different reason. What intrigued me was not Don Juan's credentials, but the effect they would produce on her. By craning my neck I caught a glimpse of her face, which revealed an expression of such sad and obvious disappointment that I probably let out a delighted guffaw. He spun round on me like a tiger, with eyes blazing fury at my intrusion. But his beautiful big dark eyes did not interest me; his erection did. It was rather short; not small, exactly, but a funny, fat, stubby instrument - a replica of the cocky young masher himself. His spitting image, I thought. Thick, I'll grant you - exceptionally thick, and to all appearance hard as marble.
Personally I am fairly large, even now, and though of course comparisons are odious, I could sympathise with Casilda for taking such a dim view of his singularly unimpressive member. Certainly this was not the doughty Toledo blade by which she had expected to be smitten to the quick. It was stiff enough to fit her sheath, and stout enough to fill it adequately, but surely not long enough to pierce her very heart, as she had hoped.
In any case, this queer little blunderbuss was the last alarming weapon that our swashbuckling Spanish guest could brandish at me as he advanced in threatening fashion. I stood my ground, and watched him with some amusement.
'Go away from here!' he shouted, pointing towards the door. 'Madame and I will be alone.'
But Casilda rose up at that moment, like some vengeful goddess clad in the imposing plenitude of her pagan nudity, and summoned the hound to heel. She clung to the sleeve of his chocolate suit, restraining him. 'No, no!' she cried. 'Quiet, Carlos!' It was an order, rapped out sharply in the tone you would employ to subdue a ferocious mastiff, and she accompanied it with vehement shakes of the head, which he could not fail to understand. He hesitated, scowling in my direction, but she gripped him firmly by the convenient handle she found within reach and clamped her mouth on his, silencing his ugly splutters of rage. Barefoot, she was considerably the taller of the two, though no match for him in strength. He flung her back against the bed - but she held on to his penis firmly, so that he fell sprawling across her where she lay.
'No, no!' she cried once more. 'Not like that - naked like me. 'Hurry - take all this stuff off, quick!'
Hastily he obeyed her, stripping at full speed. He was as hairy as an ape. With a shock of surprise, I noticed that his shoulders were in fact immensely broad - no less broad than his natty suiting had made them out to be. Like Casilda herself, the brute looked better out of clothes. He was admirably built, I have to admit - as strong as an ox, evidently, and well shaped, with a deep chest and narrow hips, although too hirsute and too short of stature to qualify as an Adonis. But the general impression was of good, young male muscle beneath the thick coat of black fur which covered him like a rug from his neck to his ankles. It was only his genitals that were not up to much, by contrast, with the rest of his sturdy physique.
Casilda eagerly scrutinised this classical virile type while he undressed. Reclining between the pair of carved, slender posts at the foot of the bed, where he had thrown her, for all the world like a goalkeeper alertly awaiting the next exultant forward rush, and with her eyes still riveted on him, it was then that she made the lewdest gesture I ever beheld in a lifetime of debauchery. Slowly, deliberately she stretched her long, lovely legs as far apart as she could spread them, doing the splits in that lolling position, so that we both - he and I - were confronted with a medical diagram of the vulva, highly coloured and fully extended, as in a textbook for students of gynaecology. Not content with this obtrusive exhibition of her secret flesh, she turned exposure into invitation by offering him the target of her parted lips which she held open with two fingers in an inverted V for victory - or vagina.
For him it was an explorer's survey of the promised land, a preliminary viewing for his approval of the savoury dish that he had ordered. For me it was a blow across the face, a sudden, stinging shock of jealous horror. Until then my emotions had been mixed, uncertain, mostly dormant, as though by dint of will I had contrived to keep my feelings, if not under complete control, at least in abeyance. Curiosity and shameful, vicarious excitement had usurped my normal faculties, numbing the spirit of revolt in my brain like a narcotic. Now, realisation of the vile role that I had assumed, both as pimp and cuckold, seeped over me, and a sweat of anguish broke out upon my brow. I was enveloped in some foul nightmare when I heard Casilda cry in the same urgent, raucous tone of imperative, intemperate desire:
'Come on now, man - take me! Give it to me! I want you.'
Before the words were out of her mouth he was inside her. He hurled himself forward into the open breach that was presented to him, as a battering ram of old must have crushed triumphantly through the weakened ramparts of an enemy citadel, vanquished and abandoned under siege. The impact winded her, and she uttered a loud gasp as the weight of the gorilla's vigorous onslaught knocked the breath from her body. His grappling hands dragged at her hips, pulling her half off the end of the bed, as he clambered upward, thrusting and jolting against her, jabbing and jerking, but at the same time holding her pelvis suspended in midair, as though to prevent the force of his attack from carrying her backwards, lest he should lose the prize he had seized or risk diminishing the violent contact of their private parts. I studied Casilda's face at this juncture, as she was lugged bolt upright into a sitting position by her arms, which were clasped behind his neck. She looked stunned, bereft, flabbergasted. Her eyes and mouth were as wide open as her legs, and fixed in a dazed expression. Rocked and pummelled amidships, she was beginning now to pant and strain in a wild attempt to draw the man down on top of her, so that she might herself enjoy the act in comfort, prone beneath his lunging bulk but solidly supported by the bed and able therefore to reply on even terms and keep her end up. He had gained the initiative; with his feet firmly planted on the door, he seemed solely concerned to take his pleasure of her surrendered sex without scruple for his amorous partner's physical need, but seeking only to press home his own advantage over an all too easy victim.
My heart leaped for joy when I saw what was happening: this brash little dago was manhandling Casilda with the utmost rigour, he had roused her erotic instinct to fever pitch, he tupped her as savagely as a beast of the field - yet he could not satisfy her. He was using her merely as an object suited to his lustful purpose; but his very success in this selfish aim would prove a bitter blow to her - and she had asked for it. I was delighted to think that she was doomed to experience the direst disenchantment in my presence. Already I toyed with the idea of how I would upbraid her for this sordid and disgraceful display when it was over. If she was so wanton and so immoral as to hope that I might take the satyr's place, after he had finished with her, and carry on from where he left off, she would soon discover that she had made a big mistake. This was the end - I realised the fact with meridian clarity as I watched her lascivious antics in the arms of another man. I was through with Casilda Vandersluys for good and all. Directly after the fellow had gone, I would kick her out of the house. Or she could buzz off with him on her own if she liked - I didn't care.
Alas, how wrong I was! The mistake was entirely mine. I underestimated the dirty bastard - and the harlot who had picked him up, frankly preferring him to me, as casually as I might choose a whore in a brothel. She could not have guessed beforehand that he possessed such a small, stumpy tool which would scarcely fill the bill; but then neither could I foresee, at this initial stage of events, what stalwart use he would make of it, what fantastic feats of endurance the monster was capable of performing, how complete his victory would be, or what a shattering effect his persistence would have on so doughty an opponent as Casilda. She, I knew, was a tough nut to crack. I had marvelled at her reserves of energy and enthusiasm when she lasted through round after gruelling round with Helen. Keen as she was for the fray, Helen had not stood the pace to the finish with half so much in hand as the younger woman, who seemed wholly inexhaustible, ever ready to renew the engagement, gallantly impervious to fatigue. Casilda met more than her match in Carlos. His staying powers were incredible. Again and again he outlasted her, checking his own orgasm but making the randy bitch spend with increasing ecstasy each time, with longer, more profound, more exquisite spasms, by a delaying technique of extraordinary resilience which I never would have credited from hearsay.
Unfortunately for my peace of mind, it was not from hearsay that I learned the grim, incontrovertible truth of that young orang-utan's sexual proficiency. To my chagrin and disgust I was obliged to witness the revolting demonstration of his prowess untiringly exercised on Casilda's wracked but willing frame, as it appeared to me, for hours on end... I was in agony throughout, yet powerless to prevent it. The experiment was conducted under my nauseated gaze - but there was nothing that I could do to stop the unspeakable cad from screwing my girl to distraction... and at her own request.
He started by his sliding both hands under her thighs and tearing them apart still further; then, when he had wrenched her open like an oyster, he pushed her knees back, bending them outwards as supplely as a frog's, so that he mounted her as if to probe her guts upon the operating table. She protested feebly, but her long legs were crossed high around his loins while he gradually ploughed his way deeper into her and farther up onto the bed. Eventually he had her flat on it, and she got a chance to retaliate in kind, battling against him hammer and tongs, as he crushed her under his weight and pounded her with his stiff, stout, chugging piston. For a time, as though moved by clockwork, he stuck to the same steady, regular, relentless rhythm, which was neither fast nor slow but evenly stressed, a succession of short, sharp stabs for many minutes at a time - until, not heeding Casilda's cries but of his own volition, to please himself, he would alter the tempo and shift the angle and the manner of his strokes. These tactical changes, occurring at odd intervals, swept all before him and soon reduced Casilda to an abject state of unassuaged, amazed submission. All trace of restraint, dignity or pride was gone. She had what she wanted - a surfeit of it, lashings of cock, almost more of the sweet physic than she could stomach. Well and truly was she getting laid; he poked her, decidedly, as she had never been poked before. The devil's pitiless prong sparked the molten red volcanic fires that consumed her burning crater and licked her entrails like subterranean tongues of flame. Tied to the stake, she wilted in the searing heat while he kept her there dangling upon the brink of an eruption, yielding to the protracted torture which she craved, yet yearning for the coup de grace to snap the unbearable tension of her nerves.
What the occupying force lacked in size, its seasoned spearhead, diligently employed, irrevocably entrenched, made up by aggressiveness. He humbled her twice, without succumbing himself, without the slightest sign of exhaustion. Indeed he seemed annoyed by the readiness of her response, for on each occasion, as she neared the inevitable climax, he growled, 'No, no, wait - not now, not yet!' when plainly she was incapable of obeying his command. Otherwise he seldom spoke, but uttered only a continuous series of guttural grunts while she, fainting in his arms, loose-limbed, tossing and floundering like a spiked fish, raved and moaned incessantly, repeatedly, through gritted teeth:
'Yes, oh yes, that's it, that's it, go on, yes, like that, go on, don't stop - ah yes, my God, dear God, don't stop, don't stop - you mustn't, oh Christ; now - ah - go on - more, more, oh please, no, don't stop, that's it - come on, you brute - oh God, yes, like that, damn you - ah, Jesus - you're killing me - go on, more - now, now, my God - I'm coming - I can't bear it - aah - now!'
They lay quiet, scarcely stirring for a while, but he did not withdraw. Hatred of them both sickened me; my knees were weak, escape or interference would be equally impossible, pointless; stricken with misery, anger and resentment, I retreated to my corner and slumped there, dosing my distress with brandy. The minutes slipped by. This disgusting farce had gone on long enough. Even Casilda must have had her fill by now, and more, by the sound of it. I must tell her southern stallion that time was up, that he would have to leave, he need not think I had invited him to spend the night.
I was somewhat fuddled, but I had come to this drastic decision and was just getting ready to throw the blighter out - when they began again. He started rodgering her once more, for all he was worth, and she of course responded straightaway, putting her back into it, grinding and groaning as gladly as before. She was in luck. I doubt if anyone, in all her rich and varied experience, had ever screwed her so thoroughly. She was beside herself. For a girl who disapproved of blasphemy in bed - as I remember she had told me - some of the obscenities which she uttered now were, to say the least, appalling. I was shocked and revolted. Filthy endearments mingled in her mouth with invocations of the Almighty, animal noises, and muttered insults. Her scarlet nails, like talons, clawed at the ruffian's hairy back, scratching the humped, muscular neck, digging with bestial passion into his neat, bobbing buttocks. He growled, but manfully bore the sharp pain for a time, then - suddenly infuriated - he grabbed her by the throat, as if to throttle her, and raising himself, struck her savagely across the face, a stinging blow, with the flat of his hand.
Her mad, agonised grimace did not alter. But to me it was an outrage that was intolerable, a typical example of caddish violence that called for instant, chivalrous, condign retribution. I must avenge this maltreatment of a woman, if not the honour she herself had trampled or the respect which Casilda no longer merited. In attempting to do so, however, I tripped - or the young brute hit me, I'm not sure which - and I fell heavily against the fender, knocking my head. Before I could pick myself up - perhaps I was too slow, being somewhat dazed - that scoundrel of a Spaniard pounced upon me, as I lay there defenceless among the fire irons, unable to move. Quicker than lightning, he had ripped off my tie and fastened my hands with it securely beneath me. I aimed a kick at his midriff, but a dressing-gown cord was knotted tightly about my ankles. I was trussed like a goose! He had no difficulty in hauling me onto my knees and toppling me backwards into the chair.
Limp and dishevelled, Casilda sat watching us from the bed. Her chin cupped in both palms, she looked listless and remote, a picture of dejection. I noticed that she did not raise a finger to help me, nor did she say a word, she was too haggard and cowed. When he turned to her again, she dropped meekly back to receive him in the same supine posture as before, with broad smooth thighs lifted above her navel... I remember nothing else from that moment on, except an aching glare behind the eyes...
When I came to, a long time later, the pain was still there but the Spaniard had gone. Casilda was bending over me, her naked bosom in my face, as she untied my wrists, having already freed my feet. Somewhat belatedly she showed intense concern for my condition, and fussed over me like a devoted nurse who arrives on the scene of a childish accident after the harm has been done. I eyed her with derision and distaste. True to the innate, uncaring harlotry of all her sex, she gave not the slightest indication of remorse, regret or even consciousness of the enormity of her offence. She had been having a damned good time; it was over now, and that was that. Surely (her manner implied) I could not be so unreasonable and churlish as to begrudge her a little fun once in a while? After all, I had not stepped in and prevented it. Quite to the contrary, I had allowed her a free hand, for which she was prepared to be duly grateful, so long as I did not go and spoil everything by electing to grumble about a mere peccadillo that was best forgotten. How could I be so tiresome as not to realise that our relationship was far more important, whereas this business with the lecherous Spaniard was just a passing fling?
I believe in the sincerity of her innocent attitude towards what had taken place. She did not give it a further thought. Such honesty, even in a flaming whore, should be accounted a virtue. But I could not look on it in that light. My love and loyalty, my every emotion, my own manhood had been spurned, insulted, trodden in the dust. Jealousy flooded my brain like a raging torrent. Casilda was calmly putting on her clothes. She drank a sip of brandy out of my glass, and offered me the dregs.
'I'm so sorry, darling,' she said - but I could not tell exactly what she meant by the remark: she might have been apologising for the mere dribble she had left me.
'How many times?' I asked, through my fatigue, in a voice that may have sounded either casual or surly. She cast a glance at me and understood the question.
'Five in all, I think,' she answered. 'But I lost count.'
Half dressed, she came and sat cross-legged on the rug at my feet before the dying fire, which she dutifully replenished with a shovelful of coal. She braced herself for a post-mortem - the errant schoolgirl or the housemaid expecting to be rebuked for breaking some valued knicknack.
'Do you know,' she said sadly, 'he only came twice? I always thought it was less easy for a man who is not circumcised to last out so long. One lives and learns.'
She had got into her stride. 'I must say he amazed me,' she added. 'But there it is. Phew! Give me an uncircumcised cock every time.'
I slapped her hard across the mouth, as he had done. The suddenness rather than the force of the blow sent her sprawling to the floor. She sprang up and faced me, spitting fury.
'You swine!' she snarled. 'You shit! How dare you? You filthy, drooling, dirty, impotent, goddam son of a bitch!'
There have been a few occasions in my life when I have lost my temper with some stupid woman - but never can I recall having been so shamelessly provoked, so wholly justified in the use of violence, as I then was by this crowing trollop. I will not deny that I enjoy a bout of playful flagellation now and again. I have spanked or whipped most of my mistresses at one time or another, for the fun of it. But this was different. I saw red. Her screeching abuse was more than I had bargained for. Strangling would have been too lenient, too quick a punishment for her, I felt. I snatched hold of her by the wrist and by the hair, I dragged her over to the bed, I clouted her again across the face and boxed her ears. She went on cursing me, pouring out a stream of shrill, inept invective against my righteous wrath when I left her there and rummaged through a chest of drawers downstairs for what was needed.
When I returned with a bamboo cane, she had not moved, but she fought like a wildcat to break away from my clutches, until I succeeded in turning her over by wrenching her arm round behind her back, while I knelt on her neck and other wrist, so that she was pinned face down upon the bed, the furious tirade muffled by the pillows, and able only to retaliate with kicking heels because I rolled the elastic knickers into a sort of rope or hobble binding the thighs tightly together, some little way below the bouncing buttocks. They leaped and shuddered and swung from side to side as I thrashed her with all my might, until the sound of her screams, muted as it was, could be heard above the whistling of the cane and the loud thud which signalled each stroke as if to count the crimson weals that marked the wonderful wide expanse of her arse in next to no time. I flogged her blindly at first, as I might have beaten a carpet - but the pattern of punishment, as it deepened and darkened in crisscross streaks, began to fascinate me, and soon I was drawing hieroglyphics in a methodical manner, with more art than sadism, on the taut, quivery canvas that bloomed like a peony. I decorated both cheeks equally with a design in purple, black and blue. When they opened with a supplicating, subconscious jerk, wincing again as though split by a cruel swipe of my wand. I aimed a lengthwise cut along the smooth ravine itself, which shrank and shut again at once like the big, bulbous jaws of some strange, flustered sea monster. From her nape to her knees Casilda's back heaved, flinched, rippled and shook. It was a windswept yellow cornfield, poppy bright: bowed, tossed, flurried by the gale. It was an ice rink scarred by a thousand skaters' trails, a seething, swollen river lashed to livid turmoil at the storm's mercy...
Mercy? She howled for mercy, but I gave her none. She could not escape; she must only endure. She should smart and bleed and faint, cringing and grovelling, while my wrath lasted. I flogged her till my arm grew tired. I relished her struggles, I joyed in her suffering, I got acute pleasure from inflicting extreme humiliation - where she would feel it most - on the incontinent flesh which she had yielded so readily, so wickedly, to another man in my presence.
I wish to emphasise again, however, that this pleasure for my part was physical perhaps, but not sexual. Her tail excited me: I trounced it for precisely that reason, in reverse - to cure myself of its attraction, not because I was jealous of the promiscuous slut, but simply to break her hold over me, to settle our account, to call it quits, and to teach her a lesson. I would do no permanent damage to her naughty, burning backside; but if it ever forgot itself in the future, it must never forget me - the one lover who had missed his share of the lady's favours, yet had enjoyed her charms to his heart's content, by caressing them in his own special way...
I let her go as soon as I was through - when I had lost interest in her wriggling, and felt she had been chastised enough. For me it was a sweet relief. I discovered that I no longer bore her any great grudge. It had simply had to be, and now it was done; I could rest easy, with the whole load of Casilda Vandersluys, a worthless burden, off my mind. It would be some time before she would care to flaunt her sorely bruised bum under Helen's nose or waggle it at any casual bedfellow, I reckoned - unless dignity mattered as little to her as decency. If she chose to make herself cheap, at least for a week or so, I'd turned her into a laughing-stock, highly coloured and comic; she could only indulge in intimacy at the risk of causing hilarity or actual ribaldry - and of providing me with a private joke in compensation. I flung the cane away across the room and fell asleep.
I do not know whether I awoke after a few minutes or an hour later, but the discomfort of wearing clothes prevented peaceful slumber. Casilda was still lying next to me, huddled on her side. I allowed her to doze on without interruption. She opened her eyes when I pulled the blankets over her and tucked her up for the night, but she did not speak or move, and her absent expression told me nothing of her feelings towards me. I undressed, tumbled into bed, and dropped off to sleep again instantly.