GC-264 Maudie
by Unknown


Meet Maudie, amateur photographer of erotica, lover of all things 
beautiful—particularly of beautiful young models in all their glorious 
shaven and shorn nudity. Lovely of face and form herself, Maudie revels in 
luxury and lust…

Meet Tubby Evans-James, cheery, fat son of a Lancashire millionaire. He 
provides for Maudie’s comforts, including her mansion of merrymaking, but 
he cannot sate her appetite…

Meet Charles Vernon St. Just Osmond, down-at-the-heels young aristocrat, 
who just happens to be looking for a career when Maudie just happens to be 
looking for a man…

It’s difficult not to like Maudie. She’s fanciful and frivolous, and 
though she does the most dreadful things, she does them all so nicely that 
even the most strait-laced will probably forgive her. Not only forgive 
naughty Maudie, but come to love her… and her charmingly wicked friends.


CHARACTERS:

MAUDIE STEVENS (“Maudie”): An amateur of the beautiful, and an exponent 
of the same in her own face and figure. She loves love and luxury, and all 
her whims and desires, and her great house at Staines are provided for by 
the wealth of,

BERTIE EVANS-JAMES (“Tubby”): The cheery fat son of a Lancashire 
millionaire.

CHARLES VERNON ST. JUST OSMOND: A very charming “younger son.”

PHIL NEVILLE: A young Cambridge undergraduate with a sense of humour.

GENERAL FITZHUGH, V.C.: A distinguished veteran with a taste for the gay 
side of life.

CLAUDE LESTRANGE: A romantic poet, sodomistically inclined.

LADY LAVINA MCCREE: “Charlie’s” Aunt, a mid-Victorian lady.

MADAME RADE: A retired Parisian actress.

TOINETTE RADE: Her “flapper” niece.

JEANNIE: A Newcastle hinny.

ELSIE & MAY: Maids at Maudie’s mansion.

TO THE READER

I THINK you’ll like “Maudie,” she’s rather like “Nemmy,” fanciful and 
frivolous, I should hardly call her “fast,” though she does most dreadful 
things, but she does them so very nicely that probably the most 
straight-laced of people, will have to forgive her, when they read her in 
the privacy of their own—or other peoples’ bedrooms—not only forgive, but 
love her and her bad ways and her worse friends.

“Maudie” deals frankly with the wicked senses, ordinary and bizarre, of a
number of charming people, who refuse to be trammeled by the usual 
conventions of Society. We meet them in London, and we meet them in their 
delightful riverside palace, where full rein is given to all their loves 
and lusts, until their comes a very unexpected d’enouement.

Our ancestors used to have a thing called the “Horn Book.” What it 
exactly was I’m not quite sure, but, touching the horn question, if 
“Maudie” doesn’t give it you, you’re past your job.

Settle down in bed with a cigarette, and a drink and the evening paper, 
and give your lady companion “Maudie” to read—well you won’t get much 
evening paper. “Maudie” is a “horn book.”

INTRODUCTION By Leonard A. Lowag, Ph.D.

Maudie, a ribald, capricious and most delightful tale, spawned in the 
colorful Edwardian Age, is more than a stimulating erotic narrative. 
Perhaps I am unduly influenced by psychological overtones, but I found 
myself, while reading this story, being drawn through the time barrier and 
taking root in this most romantic and picturesque period in British 
history. Though grace and elegance still abounded in England in this era, a
change of scene was taking place—the horse gave way to the internal 
combustion engine, wireless ushered in radio, electricity replaced 
gaslights, and the cinema with its moving pictures vied with the legitimate
stage for the spotlight In London, the opulence, the weekends of gaiety in 
magnificent old houses, the balls and garden parties brought a feeling of 
freedom from centuries of puritanical oppression. King Edward himself was a
gay boulevardier, and was loved and honored in spite of his rather 
unorthodox nature.

In this gay yet courtly setting, our principal character, Maudie, an 
unconventional and intelligent hussy, plays with the most serious concern 
the role of mistress to a large portion of the aristocracy of England. Born
of legitimate if doubtful parentage, she was educated in the mast 
discriminating and classical of schools, and emerged a lady in every sense 
of word except one—for Maudie was one of those thwarted personalities who 
could not be content with the conformities of society. Her need for sexual 
fulfillment was too great, the desire for ego-building too intense, for 
Maudie to settle for less than the zenith of life’s offering.

In the English countryside near London, Maudie maintains a well-staffed 
mansion, complete with gardens and bathing pool. Secreted within this 
officious dwelling are rooms for salacious lovemaking of every deviant 
variety, as well as a specially designed section for “artistic photography”
in which the human nude, male and female, is captured on film in poses to 
titillate the senses of the onlooker.

Maudie is a strange creature, whose name should have been Aphrodite, or 
that of some other such soft and seductive nymph, and who emerges from the 
printed page a sort of Messalina, who, if you remember your erotic history,
lived in A.D. 48 and was the third wife of the Roman Claudius I. (Actually,
there were two Messalinas, but since both were equally debauched, we shall 
deal with them as one person.) According to the records—which may or may 
not be correct, but are interesting nonetheless—Messalina was so obsessed 
with fulfillment of her sexual desires that she required at least 14 men a 
day to sate her lust, and when none was available, she would run about 
biting the servants at random. Though her sexual endeavors, psychologically
speaking, Maudie was seeking a secure love; by conquering many men she was 
attempting to re-establish her self confidence, which was easily destroyed.
It is true that no matter how attentive and loving the female neurotic’s 
mate may be, she must seek further love entanglements. One of the most 
evident neurotic traits is a craving to degrade other persons in her 
environment, as with this type individual it is necessary that praise and 
affection be heard over and over from the lips of new and strange lovers, 
in order to raise her feeling of inferiority.

Although Maudie manages to rise above the bestial level and wears the 
robes of refinement, her primary function in existing is for the 
stimulation of the erotic senses. In a manner of speaking, each of us also 
functions in this way; i.e., according to Menninger, having reached 
emotional maturity at the age of 10, we go through life consistently 
desiring the same things we did at this tender age. We still long for 
gifts, for love, for a full stomach, for recognition of our 
accomplishments, for sleep when we are tired, etc. Who wouldn’t envy Maudie
her lovely existence—servants, choice food served in the most elegant 
manner, stimulating playmates to raise the ego, entertainment of varied 
sorts… in fact, excepting Maudie’s fixation of sexual deviation, any of us 
might be pleased to trade places with this lady of leisure, and I dare say 
even with the deviant sexual practices, many would leap at the chance… at 
first glance.

Let us look further, however, at Maudie and her fixations: First and 
foremost, she is a prostitute—a gilded one, but no less a wanton woman.

Next, she is a bi-sexual, drawn to the practice of sexual habits unknown 
to mast lay people.

Third, she selects young, budding girls for photographic subjects, and 
indoctrinates them into her world of lust.

Fourth, she is an accomplished sadist.

Fifth, she exists within a sex club wherein the notables of London come 
together and engage in orgies to rival the lustful banquets of the ancient 
Romans.

Now let us inspect the life of Maudie more closely, and see why she would
choose a life such as this, when she was born beautiful and intelligent, 
was carefully schooled and artistically talented.

Nymphomaniacs, those ladies who have one love after another, are as 
numerous as their male counterparts, the Don Juans. There can be many 
causes for emotional stability such as this. Sometimes we find that 
frigidity, dating back to a serious traumatic experience in childhood, to 
be the reason. In these cases, the key incident is forgotten or buried in 
the subconscious mind. Most of the time it is a happening related to sex, 
in which the sensitive child is offended. The girl experiences a violent 
psychological shock which renders her incapable of fidelity. These women 
are seekers of love, but cannot find fulfillment, and their inability to 
find pleasure in love is not a biological deficiency but a definite 
neurosis. The superego, generally greatly exaggerated in the neurotic, 
prohibits them from experiencing the happiness of love and keeps them 
constantly searching for love, yet finding each a bitter disappointment.

Another prime cause of the Messalinac personality is a guilt complex 
stemming from childhood, coupled with a masochistic desire to suffer and 
endure punishment for sin. With this fixation, one cannot hope to 
experience pleasure in love or sex, since to do so would be to add further 
to her guilt.

Other cases can be traced to father fixations. Some young girls are 
sexually approached by their fathers; others, subconsciously in love with 
their fathers, long for sexual relations with them but reject the act as 
unthinkable. In either case, the result is an intense searching throughout 
the girl’s life for a man to duplicate her father. Not being able to find 
her father’s image, she proceeds from one man to another, discarding each 
as inadequate, since in her subconscious mind no one can actually replace 
her paternal love.

Excessive masculinity may also cause nymphomaniac tendencies. Those women
who have a male drive may feel ignoble playing the woman’s role in sexual 
relations. Since the are unable to “be” men, they must continue to 
passively humiliate themselves with their male partners (since they are not
masculine enough to be homosexuals). Feeling emotionally dissatisfied, they
drive themselves from one adventure to another, hoping in each to be able 
to adjust to the feminine role, but with each try becoming more rebellious,
until they discard the lover in disgust. It is possible for a woman of this
type to find a passive, sympathetic man over whom she can exert sufficient 
control to satisfy her ego, and sometimes such marriages turn out fairly 
well—the man is satisfied with his strong wife because of his weak nature, 
and the woman feels compensated for her inferior role since she is allowed 
to rule.

Maudie, being the figment of a writer’s imagination, gets away (through 
literary license) with being a nymphomaniac and enjoying her sexual life at
the same time. She even revels in the erotic experiences of others, and is 
tremendously unselfish in sharing her sex partners with friends, 
co-workers, and servants. I was actually stirred to realize what a 
wonderful world this might be if a generous attitude such as this were 
adopted by each of us toward his fellowman. True, we might be a world of 
sexual beasties, but in the total scheme of things, all would be sharing in
unselfish pleasure. I certainly do not anticipate such a metamorphosis, 
however, as man is basically selfish, greedy, and grasping, particularly 
when it comes to sharing his love object with another. It is constantly 
amazing to me that man does as well as he has, and is able to maintain a 
balance of sorts, which does point up that good (or fear) must, in most 
cases, override the bad in mankind. (On second thought, I believe that fear
may be the predominant factor.) One of Maudie’s interesting customs is the 
sexual education of young girls, which is complete in every way, including 
their final deflowering. As low and vile as this may sound on the surface, 
it is a fact that among various peoples of the earth it has been considered
proper for a young lady to earn her dowry by prostitution, no doubt a 
sacrifice to the goddess of love and fertility, or as a way of driving evil
spirits from the sex life of the new couple. The practice of defloration by
someone other than the husband has been found in other cultures also; i.e.,
in Biblical times when it was stated that an Amorite girl who was about to 
marry should sit in fornication seven days by the city gate. Another custom
in ancient tribes was one whereby girls were deflowered by artificial 
means. Generally the deflowering was done by the mother or another older 
woman of the tribe, signifying that the girl was now ready for the duties 
of womanhood. This was considered quite beneficial to the bridegroom, who 
could then take up his marital duties without the necessary pain to the 
bride and the waiting period otherwise needed. In some parts of Southern 
India, if a girl is not deflowered prior to the beginning of her puberty, 
she is considered disgraced, and it is difficult for these girls to find 
husbands. Thus we see that although Maudie and her troop of sexual deviates
had none but the basest of motives, this type of practice has been done in 
the past in the name of religious or civil rites.

Some of the other colorful characters in this little book include an 
overweight millionaire with a passion for young girls, a young nobleman 
with a very devious sense of responsibility, a dashing general who 
contributes much to the satire of the story, a titled lady who takes leave 
of her mid-Victorian manners when she comes in contact with Maudie and her 
entourage, a homosexual poet, and an entire retinue of girls of all sizes 
and shapes.

Maudie could be called a satire on London’s sophisticated 
aristocracy—coarse and hearty, yet highly stylized and polite. Horace 
possibly summed it up when, in translating a piece of literature, he said 
that he wished to tell the truth laughing. It is indeed true that the 
satirist, though he laughs, tells the absolute truth. Perhaps this is what 
many readers resent most about satire, for the majority of people cannot 
bear the truth about themselves or their environment; they prefer to bury 
their heads in the sand and exist comfortably in their own aura of 
happiness. Complete honesty can ofttimes be the utmost cruelty, and is many
times deliberately inflicted on the target of one’s distaste or dislike. I 
have occasionally found it kind to lie, though it is necessary to lie 
gracefully and with charm and sincerity. And convincingly.

There are two kinds of satirists: those who like humanity but who also 
like to poke fun at man and his foolishness; and these who despise the 
human race. The latter type’s hate is evident through his deadly aim, which
is motivated with one desire, that of destruction. In fact, it may be said 
that these two types of satirists have divergent purposes; one writes to 
heal the soul, and the other to punish and destroy. Maudie points up with 
skillful satire the undercurrent or reality which exists beneath the 
bewigged and beruffled society of upper England. Who does not remember the 
British scandal involving two beautiful prostitutes who had wormed their 
way almost to the English throne? This was quite an expose of the British 
facade; it laid bare with a terrifying hand the weakness of man, no matter 
what his title or station in life.

There is no doubt that the morals in the Edwardian Era were influenced by
the king himself. Edward delighted in the society of women; he was 
stimulated by their companionship, flattered by their interest, and 
satisfied by the ultimate sexual relationship. The most famous of his 
mistresses was Lillie Langtry, the actress, praised by Oscar Wilde and 
admired as a beauty by all of England. Alexander, wife of Edward, often 
invited Lillie to royal dinner parties and receptions, and accepted sadly 
the King’s over-passionate nature. Edward quickly tired of his mistresses, 
but maintained loyalty to them throughout his lifetime. (Lillie Langtry 
bore a daughter, during her intimacy with the King, who was believed to be 
the child of Edward.) Another mistress of His Majesty was the Countess of 
Warwick, a married woman, as were Lillie and later sweethearts. The king 
took her to Paris and to many public affairs, and their relationship 
continued until the king met Mrs. Alice Keppel, a beautiful, amusing and 
witty woman who remained the mistress of Edward until the end. She was 
openly spoken of as His Majesty’s second wife.

The ambivalence of gaiety and frivolity mingled with elegance and 
stateliness was the distinctive mark of the Edwardian Era, and this is also
decidedly true of our novel, Maudie. I shouldn’t wonder that the ideas and 
morals were taken from the life of Rosa Lewis, who in the 1900’s took over 
the Cavendish Hotel in Jermyn Street and converted it into the most 
respectable and elegant brothel in the entire country. It was visited by 
all the upper-class men who were so inclined; and these spoiled gentlemen 
would sometimes stay for days, being fed and pampered in the most luxurious
and grand manner.

To read Maudie is to experience a longing to return to the old world and 
the old way; so much has been lost in our commercialized, functional and 
shorn way of life. We stand almost naked, stripped of our little manners 
and customs and those frills of life which bring so much in anticipation 
and joy. And so, dear reader, as you partake of this literary offering for 
whatever pleasure it may give to you, remember the words of Omar Khayyam, 
written sometime between the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, but as true 
today as then: “Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too 
into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, 
sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!”

L. Lowag, Ph.D.

CHAPTER ONE - THE MANSION OF MAUDIE

An awakening in a whore’s bedroom is, as a rule, cheerless. One is vague 
as to one’s whereabouts, as a rule sore on the John Thomas, and a general 
feeling of having made a bloody fool of oneself is most often mixed with a 
wonder whose pajamas you’ve got on, and whether you’ve got the clap—or 
possibly worse.

Charles Vernon St. Just Osmond, fifth in succession to the Earldom of 
Osmond, a very much “younger son,” with a good deal less money even than 
most younger sons, turned over twice, flicked his eyes at the sunlight 
dribbling through the blinds, bit a tongue which felt like leather, sniffed
a distinct aroma of whiskey, and wondered where the hell he was, why he had
done it, and who he had done it on.

He raised himself on one elbow and looked. Then he was pleased. He had 
obviously not made a very drunken error. The good lady who lay by his side,
in a charming silk pajama suit with a deep Venetian lace collar, was not 
only pretty, but interesting. Her chestnut hair flowed over her shoulders. 
Her arms, bare from just above the elbows, were deliciously rounded, and 
her very delicate little hands were heavily beringed. This, Osmond (or, as 
we shall call him, Charlie) concluded, was no ordinary tart, and the 
question of finance smote him suddenly. He had a vague recollection of 
friends and the Empire and the Continental, and he knew that he couldn’t 
have much on him. He was just slipping out of bed to look through his 
pockets when she woke up and put a soft arm around his neck.

“Remember what you came here for last night, and which you didn’t do, 
darling,” she cooed.

Charlie had forgotten that. He must have been very drunk, he thought to 
himself, and as he sat up in bed his head whirled in confirmation. The girl
pulled him gently down and kissed him softly and lovingly.

“Naughty boy to have been so drunk last night,” she purred. “Think of me,
full of lust, ready to do anything, and you went to sleep like a log. I 
suppose you don’t remember how you got undressed?”

Charlie admitted that he didn’t.

“Well, I didn’t take your clothes off, but my maid did, and put you into 
your pajamas. She’s out of the common pretty, yet with two women by you, 
you couldn’t summon up a flicker of a stand. You’ve got to make up for it 
now, my lazy darling.”

Her little hand slipped over his stomach, undid the knot of his pajama 
trousers, and played delicately with a very limp and lethargic phallus. Her
other hand reached up behind her and touched a bell. Charlie sank back, 
dreamily anticipating some further surprise.

Almost immediately a very smart and pretty girl, dressed in a sort of 
comic opera maid’s costume, came in without knocking.

“This gentleman isn’t well,” said Charlie’s hostess. “Bring the usual 
remedies.”

“The usual remedies” arrived very swiftly, and a tired and dejected 
Charlie noted with a relieved glance tea, coffee, tiny caviar sandwiches, 
delicately cut toast, almost smokingly hot little rolls, and more severe 
comforts in the shape of half-bottles of champagne and several brands of 
liqueurs and brandy. On a separate tray were all sorts of fruit.

“If you are very hungry, darling,” said the little lady of the bed, “you 
can have anything you like in the way of a serious breakfast, but my advice
is, play about with these little things now, and when we are up and bathed,
and things, we’ll have a proper meal in the garden by the river; it’s a 
beautiful morning, and the lilies are lovely.”

River, garden, lilies—every evidence of wealth. Charlie began to wonder 
what he had struck, and to think more nervously than ever of his waistcoat 
pockets.

The pretty maid slipped a soft, rounded arm under Charlie’s back and 
raised him gently. She sat on the bed by his knee, the trays by her side on
a table, and began to feed him like a baby. Charlie’s delightful bedfellow 
lay back in amorous abandon.

“Nothing for me just yet, Elsie,” she said, smiling.

Charlie didn’t quite know which way to look—both girls were so delicious.
The maid’s left hand, whether by accident or design, lay right on his cock,
as she handed him drinks and sandwiches with her right. She had crossed her
knees as she sat, and her lovely calves showed right up to the garters.

She wouldn’t let him help himself, but he couldn’t keep his hands idle. 
One toyed with her breasts; his fingers within her bodice dwelling 
lustfully on the swelling globes. The other bund his bedfellow had 
captured, and it was not idle. She had thrown the bedclothes aside, pulled 
her pajama trousers a little down, and had Charlie’s hand pressed gently on
her clitoris.

Charlie ate and drank, and in a moment or two all lassitude had left him.
His cock was rampant and erect, and his eyes wandered lasciviously and 
eagerly from one wickedly smiling face to another.

The pretty maid gave him a long, hard-breathed kiss which nearly set him 
on fire before she left.

As the door closed behind the maid, the other girl kissed him savagely on
the neck.

“Take my things off,” she said jerkily to Charlie.

It was the work of a moment, and she was exposed in all her naked 
loveliness.

To his surprise, Charlie noticed that her mons Veneris carried no hair 
whatever; it was perfectly shaved, and as his fingers strayed downward, he 
felt no trace of any stubble even as he inclined his head and kissed it, he
felt conscious that his chin, though he had had a late shave overnight, was
by far the roughest.

Charlie knew a bit; he hadn’t knocked about town for nothing, and he was 
accustomed to pictures of the female form divine, in which the hair was as 
conspicuously absent as the clothing, but he had never run across it in 
real life; and, curiously, it opened up a new vista of thought to him.

He kissed the shorn vagina and tasted some strangely sweet effluvia, 
which contrasted attractively with the caviar and the Georges Goulet.

Charlie, hardly able to contain himself, was just turning to fuck her in 
the old sweet Adam-and-Eve way, but her little hand, strong with passion, 
pushed him back.

“Lie quiet, darling,” she said; “I’m going to be jockey.” Delicately she 
knelt astride him. “Do you want it very much, sweetheart?” she cooed, as 
her fingers toyed with the luxuriant hairs of his bush.

“Want it, my God! I can’t hold it—be quick.”

She parted the dainty red lips of her cunt with her diamond-flashing 
fingers, and with just a movement of her wrist, guided Charlie’s member in 
and sank softly down on him till her bare breasts caressed his, and their 
lips became as one reciprocating engine of love and lust.

It was a convulsive grapple of two naked bodies; a passionate mingling of
flesh, a communion of kisses, and a good deal more communion of souls than 
those two young people quite realized at that time. Charlie really thought 
it was the best fuck he had ever had, and yet he didn’t even know the 
girl’s name, nor anything at all about her.

Somehow, though, he felt he had met an affinity. As her legs twined over 
his bottom and her strong, young arms grappled him to her with loving 
vigor, he felt somehow that he had never known the time when that red, hot,
little tongue had not darted over his.

He did not quite know when he actually finished. He had half fainted; the
girl’s grip was loosened too; he seemed to be swimming in mid-air in a red 
mist. The most delicious fatigue possessed him. When he came to, she was 
still on top him, but wide awake and alert.

“Where are we?” he hesitated. “I expect I owe all sorts of apologies.”

“You don’t remember the motor drive?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re near Staines, and you’ll learn all about things when you 
feel a bit better. Try a little more caviar; it’s special, straight from a 
grand duke friend of mine. You couldn’t buy it in a shop.”

Grand dukes—oh, Lord! thought Charlie, what will she expect?”

She jumped up and went to a curtained door.

“The bathroom’s here, dear,” she said; “you can have it in a moment.” And
she was gone.

Charlie Osmond finished a glass of champagne, got hastily out of bed, and
examined his pockets.

One pound, fourteen and seven was the net—obviously useless.

He had done this sort of thing before, and subsequently paid, but there 
was something about this girl that made him uneasy. She was very much out 
of the ordinary.

He had some more champagne and listened apprehensively to the splashing 
in the bathroom.

*

We have to go through this book with Charlie Osmond, so our readers may 
just as well know a little about him.

A gentleman by birth, he had most of the right instincts and perversions.
He had left Eton for the usual reason, and he regretted it. He did not want
to bugger little boys, but others did it, and he somehow hated to be out of
fashion. Unfortunately, he was found out.

At Oxford his career had been meteoric. He could not go to a very good 
college, owing to his school troubles, and his good allowance made him a 
star at—(we will suppress the name). He did many things he should not have,
and his final exploit of sowing the word “CUNT” in mustard and cress in the
front quad grass, which came up under the astonished eyes of the dean’s 
daughter, led to his final exit. His defense that he had meant the word as 
a moral admonition to those of the Varsity who had leaned to malpractices 
in the sodomistically line was not accepted, and he went.

The homecoming was as usual—nobody to meet him at the station but the 
chauffeur, and father in the gun-room.

*

“Your son’s devotion to landscape gardening,” ran the dean’s note, “is 
undoubtedly commendable, but we must remind you that the grass in the front
quadrangle at—has for 500 years preserved its virginity, and the word 
inscribed makes not only a blemish on the grass, but conveys a reflection 
on the locality. We are only pleased that no word has found its way to the 
American papers.—We are, etc.,

HY. CHAETERIS (Dean)”

*

Charlie Osmond came to town with 300 a year and a paternal kick on the �
arse.

He could not live on 300 a year, and he didn’t try to. It cost him that �
in clothes and drink.

Well, it had gone on somehow for some time, but the end, and Canada—or 
something worse—was near.

Yet he realized that he was really a very nice young man; everyone liked 
him, and he liked most people, but he hadn’t got a career and he wanted 
one.

The divinity came back and sat down on the foot of the bed, lighting a 
cigarette.

*

We have got to know about her.

She was not a clergyman’s daughter.

Her father had prospered in the nitrate market, and, until the inevitable
end, had prospered exceedingly, so his children were well brought up. 
Maudie Stevens went to school at Eltham, in Kent, and was “finished”—
well-finished—at a convent near Rouen.

She had her baby in a suburb of Paris, and her family gave her money and 
her conge. The money was luckily tied up, so that her father’s sensational 
end at the Old Bailey did not affect her financially.

She had a few hundreds a year, a detestation of Suburbia, and no morals.

She took the inevitable end quite calmly, and became a tart, pure and 
simple.

She was very popular, and—but we shall see.

*

Charlie Osmond started bluntly.

“I don’t quite know,” he blundered, “what you think of me.”

She laughed and twisted her hair into a bewitching knot over her 
forehead.

“Where I am, I don’t know,” he went on. “Who you are, I don’t know; and 
I’ve no money to speak of. I feel a pig.”

“I know you well enough, Charlie Osmond. I wouldn’t have picked you up 
and brought you down here if I hadn’t wanted you—but I did. Now make 
yourself at home; get into the bathroom. You’ll find clean collars and a 
new tooth-brush and things, and we’ll have breakfast and talk. I haven’t 
exactly brought you here for nothing.”

Charlie felt considerably relieved when he found himself alone in the 
dainty bathroom.

Every imaginable sort of comfort was ready at hand, and he enjoyed a most
elaborate scented bath. After the final cold shower, he put down a stiff 
ice-cold brandy and soda, and was ready for anything the world might bring 
forth.

Maudie was dressed when he came back into the bedroom, dressed in a 
simple summer muslin, which made him remember with a shock that he had been
in evening clothes the night before.

Maudie obviously divined his thought.

“I expect you’ll find flannels to do you in the wardrobe,” she said, 
laughingly. “I keep several sizes.”

In a few minutes Charlie was a smart young man in immaculate boating 
flannels, and as he followed his hostess through the pretty hall and across
the lawn to where a breakfast table flashed its silver, glass and napery 
temptingly under the trees, he felt he’d like to stop here forever.

Another pretty maid, in white, and a page-boy, in white ducks, waited.

Charlie frankly made a pig of himself. A cool breeze flickering over the 
Thames had given him a raving appetite, and everything was so very nicely 
done, and the pretty eyes opposite his were so twinklingly alluring.

CHAPTER TWO - MAUDIE’S GARDEN AND STUDIO

On a little slope, very green and fresh-looking, and completely shut off 
from the house by the trees, a number of really sensible-sized cushions 
were spread. Thither, after breakfast, Maudie led the way, and flopped, 
making no bones about showing her lovely legs right up to the knee. 
Openwork stockings are distracting enough at the best of times, but when it
comes to the very finest of red silk, and the tiniest of little red morocco
shoes at the end of them, matching exactly the scarlet sash which encircled
Maudie’s tapering waist, it takes a strong man to think of anything but the
worst. Charlie flopped by her side, and took a kiss, which was only stopped
by the page-boy’s judicious cough. He had the daily papers and cigarettes.

“I’ll ring if I want anything,” she said. “Now see that we’re not 
disturbed.”

There was an electric bell fixed to one of the trees, likewise a 
telephone extension.

“My word, you do do yourself well,” said Charlie, nestling down very 
comfortably and toying idly with the little dear’s knees, “telephone and 
all.”

“Oh, it’s very convenient. I’ve a lot of journalist friends who like to 
lie about here in the summer and telephone lies to their offices. It’s 
wonderful what nice things you can phone when you’ve got a nice girl all 
over you, and a feeling of delicious laziness. These cushions could tell a 
bit.

“Now, you can put your hand up higher, right up; nobody can possibly see 
us unless they go past on a boat. I want to talk a little business to you.

“First of all, you’ll want some clothes. I’m sending my car up to town. 
My chauffeur can take any message to Half Moon Street—you see, I know where
you live—and get what you want. Are you on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Well, ring your man up; have you got a man?”

“Yes; it rims to owing for that.”

“Well, get on now; I want the man to go soon. I’m going to keep you here 
tonight, unless you’ve got anything very important on.”

“No; and if I had I’d miss it.”

“You won’t be able to sleep with me. My really best financial boy is 
coming, and I’ve got to go through it. I think you know him, Bertie 
Evans-James.”

“Bertie—Tubby Bertie; oh, Lord, yes! I wonder I haven’t met you.”

“I don’t come up to town much. I love this place and Paris. Now you ring 
up and tell your man that a chauffeur called Gerstein will call with your 
card.”

Charlie reached up to the receiver, which was hung conveniently low.

“One minute, dear,” whispered Maudie. “I’ve a wicked little fad. When any
of my men pals are telephoning, I like to get on top, and just ride on it; 
it’s ripping.”

Charlie was only too pleased, and lay back as she knelt over him and 
unloosened his trousers.

Lord knows, what came out was stiff enough. Eight good inches of it, hard
as steel, and panting with hot lust.

She bent and kissed it, first running her tongue lightly round the 
glands; then, with a quick movement slipped her leg over, and seemed to 
flick the great member into her boiling little volcano of a cunt.

It hint Charlie a little as she thrust herself right down and began to 
slip slowly up and down, but it was delightful pain.

His man’s voice seemed strangely odd, and Charlie wondered what on earth 
that staid personage would think if he knew exactly where his master was 
getting on the phone from.

Suits he asked for, collars, shirts, etc., boots and ties, and at the 
hats he climaxed violently. He felt a savage bite on the neck, and 
collapsed with his man’s voice in his ear saying, “Yes, sir, and your 
aunt’s here, sir, and would like to speak to you, sir.”

Charlie gasped, but there was no way out of it; Aunt Lavinia must not be 
offended.

“Oh, Charlie, is that really you? What wonderful inventions these are. I 
feel I can almost see you—”

Charlie shuddered.

“—and I hear you’re having your things sent down by motor. How nice. Do 
you know, I’ve never been in one. I shall take the chance of running down 
to see you; I can get back by train. See you later—bye-bye.” And he was 
rung off.

Charlie explained the situation to the girl as she leisurely buttoned 
him.

“Oh, let the old lady come,” she said. “I can behave like a lady; don’t 
you worry. I was brought up as one. I’ll put on my very best party airs, 
and she won’t complain of her dinner, I give you my word. Does she know 
Bertie, by the way?”

“Oh, certain to.”

“Very well; I’ll be a foreign widow, met Bertie at Homburg or somewhere. 
I speak perfect French and German.”

Charlie weakly acquiesced.

“I’m afraid you don’t quite know Aunt Lavinia,” he said; “she’s very, 
very mid-Victorian!”

“Never mind, I can be early Victorian. I’ll be her friend for life before
she’s been here two hours. Now come along into the house, and I’ll tell you
what I really want you to do for me—or, it is a lovely morning, and I don’t
know whether you like swimming or not, but I do, and I’ve a lovely little 
private bathing place near by here.”

Charlie was very much ready, and after the page-boy had been sent to give
the chauffeur his instructions, they wandered off, hand in hand, down a 
little land, to a highly palisaded backwater.

There were two big and comfortable dressing-rooms, one for men and one 
for women.

“Sometimes we are very respectable and wear bathing costumes and things,”
Maudie explained; “but sometimes, like this morning, for instance, we don’t
do anything of the sort, and you are just going to undress me, mother 
naked, and we’ll swim about like Adam and Eve.”

It was not the first time Charlie had got into a bath with a cockstand, 
but it was the first time he had dived in to swim like that. When he turned
over to float, the little siren Maudie swam up to him and laughingly tied a
dainty handkerchief onto his rampant mast.

“Now you can show your colours,” she said. “You look like a submarine 
with the periscope stuck out of the water.”

She swam like a sea-nymph, and her figure, all naked and glistening with 
the water as she poised herself for her dives, made Charlie forget all 
about Aunt Lavinia, tailors’ bills, or any worries in this world. He made 
an ineffective attempt to get into her while they were both floating—he had
heard of such things being done—but the result was nearly a watery death 
for both. However, they managed to jack each other off; then Maudie called 
a halt, and they clambered out and onto the landing stage.

The mattresses, covered with thick towelling, were beautifully soft, and 
their wet bodies sank luxuriously into their embrace.

“There’s a very pretty little grass slope over there,” said Maudie, “if 
you prefer nature. For my part, I agree with the late lamented Oscar Wilde 
‘Nature may be very nice to look at, but it was not intended to sit on.’ 
Let’s lie here and let the sun dry us. There are lots of little towels 
lying about if you want one.”

Charlie’s only reply was a passionate kiss.

His hand strayed to where it shouldn’t, but the girl put it gently away.

“Not just now, dear,” she said; “we’ve had a good bit. Lie quiet in the 
sun. You can smoke if you like. You’ll find cigarettes in the cupboard in 
the dressing room, and all sorts of drink if you want it. Personally, I 
should like a little champagne cup. Yes, I should; my butler makes it 
special. I’ll phone up to the house.”

But—he mustn’t see us like this.”

“Oh, he won’t; there’s a sliding door opens into the cupboard.”

She went to the telephone. How lovely she looked standing there in naked 
grace, quite like a Grecian goddess—and what a contrast to the very modem 
apparatus in her hand. Charlie longed to take a photograph of her, and the 
girl seemed to divine his thoughts.

“Like to take a picture of me? There’s a camera in the shed. I know you 
photograph.”

Charlie took six. He was an ardent and expert photographer, and he had 
taken many pictures of models in the nude, but he had never had such a 
model as this. He realized now the beauty of the shaven mound of Venus; she
was shaved under the arms too.

The cup came in a beautiful old china bowl, also two Venetian glasses 
with long silver stems, like magnified punch ladles.

They squatted with the bowl between them, and sipped. It was very 
heavenly.

“Does old—er—Tubby come and do stunts like this?” asked Charlie.

“Oh Lord, yes; he flops about like a porpoise.”

“Lucky beggar!”

“Well, I suppose he is lucky. He spends a great deal on me, of course; 
you can see this house isn’t run on air, but he is lucky in getting a girl 
a little out of the common to arrange amusements for him; you’ve no idea 
yet what we can do for you.”

“I should die.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. If you take lust delicately and scientifically, it
hinds no one; only people who fornicate like animals, and have no thoughts 
above the actual parts of their bodies which are in contact, upset their 
constitutions. This is a pretty little swimming place, isn’t it?”

“Ripping.”

“And the mixed bathing very much au naturel is jolly, isn’t it?”

“Rather.”

“My own idea. They used to do it, I believe, in Meddenharn Abbey days. 
Now we’ll dress and go in; I want to show you the house. Bring the camera, 
and we’ll develope those. Take some more of me in various stages of my 
getting dressed, and use up the whole spool.”

Charlie, nothing loth, did. First with just her stockings and shoes on, 
then with a hat added to that, next with drawers, and so through the stages
till the complete, idyllic, muslin-clad river girl used up the last film.

They got back to the house by another route, through a somewhat severely 
classical garden, peopled with very excellent statues of heathen gods and 
goddesses.

“Tubby doesn’t like this,” she said, “he calls it the Lemprierium. I 
caught him one day trying to shoot the fig leaf off that Apollo with an 
air-gun. I punished him by making him strip, gumming a great fig leaf on 
him, and making him walk about here for two hours; each time he passed the 
Apollo he had to apologize to it and kiss its behind. The others did laugh;
you know what Tubby’s figure is.”

Charlie was prepared to be surprised at the house, but he was more than 
surprised. Very large, an old Elizabethan mansion, slightly built onto and 
modernized; without, it was the embodiment of stately grace; within, of the
most up-to-date comfort, Charlie remembered that Tubby’s father owned many 
factories in Lancashire, but thought they must do pretty well to keep up 
this—and the old man himself had a bit of a reputation for chorus girls.

They went cursorily through the house. It was not furnished much like a 
tart’s house, but rather like that of a great lady of fashion. The servants
were certainly rather comic opera, and a prettier lot Charlie thought he 
had never seen. The men servants he encountered were French, barring the 
very staid old butler.

They came at last to a little boudoir overlooking garden and river.

*

“Now we’ll talk,” said Maudie. “First of all, give me that camera; I’ll 
have them developed.”

The white-clad page-boy took the machine.

“Firstly, Charlie Osmond, I know all about your skill as a photographer. 
Well, I’m mad on it myself, and I’m pretty good, you shall see directly.

“Now, what I want you to do is this. I know you’re not too well 
off—pardon my being blunt—I want you to look after my photography, and 
incidentally see after getting models for me. You’ll have to use a lot of 
tact, but you’ll have a thundering good time.

“Why I want you is that I must have a gentleman; I can’t have an ordinary
professional photographer. I couldn’t stick working with him, and ‘Tubby’ 
wouldn’t like it. My great hobby is pictures of young girls, in the nude, 
of course, and that’s why I have my own pussy shaved; they have to have it 
done too. They are shy at first, but soon get used to it. We have quite 
lively parties. But come along, you shall see the studio first before you 
decide.”

*

Maudie unlocked a curtained door.

“This room I do deep under lock and key,” she said.

It was a huge octagonal room, glass-roofed, with an admirable north 
light. One end of the octagon was a complete small theatre. “It has,” said 
Maudie, “a large plant of scenery and every facility for producing all 
classes of stage plays.

“Wait till you see some of ‘em—home made,” said Maudie. “We’ve got some 
pretty wits among our members—we call it a club. It’s supposed to exist for
the practice of the higher photographic art, and the exhibition of real 
life on the stage.

“It is damned real, too, I can tell you.

“Our finest bit of realism was a play which lasted, on and off, for 
nearly a year.

“It started with a courtship, rivalry, seduction—dark man, dark night, 
and that sort of thing, you know—of course, in full view of the audience. 
Then he marries her, and we ran through the first nine months of their life
together, their lusts and their quarrels. How they both were untrue, and 
how she gets gradually larger in condition till she gets her belly bang 
right up, and she finally pops in full view of the audience.

“Of course we were lucky in having a girl who was not only a very good 
actress, but happened to be like that, and was strong enough to play right 
through. It was Miss––—,” naming a very well-known player.

Charlie started.

“Yes; that’s how she spent her time when the papers said she was touring 
in Italy. Oh, she is a brazen bitch.”

But to the photography. Except for a number of photos lying on a big 
table on the carpeted dais at the other end of the room, there was not much
evidence of photography at all. No cameras, no pictures on the walls, which
were entirely covered with what seemed to be a patchwork of little 
curtains.

“Voila; hey, presto!” exclaimed Maudie, pressing a button at the side of 
the proscenium.

The walls altered as if at the touch of a fairy’s wand, and a most 
gorgeous vista of photographic voluptuosity met Charlie’s astonished and 
delighted eyes. Photos of every size were there, many of them coloured, 
most beautifully coloured.

There were no paintings except a life-sized oil of Maudie herself as 
Diana. That had been hung on the line at the academy. Charlie remembered it
well now; it was signed by a well-known French portrait painter, in fact 
the greatest of them all, and the discoverer of genius in many an 
Englishman.

But this picture, magnificent though it was, was quite dwarfed by the 
variety and beauty of the photos.

First in numbers came the nudes. They were none of them of the blatantly 
crude, erotic, fucking, all-ends-up type, but they were… well… not the sort
that Aunt Lavinia ought to see.

There were many single nudes, very nearly always the model being Maudie 
herself. For this she apologized.

“You see, Charlie,” she said, “I have a paucity of models. This GREAT 
IDEA is only in its infancy yet: that’s where I’m looking to you for help. 
Tubby’s no good. If I left him to get me models, he’d bring women like cart
horses. Tubby has strange ideas of female beauty—why he is so infatuated 
with me, I can’t think.

“No; I want more girl models for the single figures. It doesn’t matter so
much for the groups, as long as we have good principals.”

The single figures were very beautiful. There was a complete set of 
Maudie’s life—Maudie in her bath—Maudie drying herself under the 
trees—Maudie riding, cycling, rowing, and in various gowns. The nearest 
approach to being very suggestive was Maudie with only her stockings and 
shoes on, but every strip of jewellery she possessed.

There were a number of pretty child pictures, but nearly all the same 
models again.

“We must have more flappers,” said Maudie, vehemently.

The groups, however, were of the more surpassing interest, very many 
depicted great—and small, but interesting—events in the world’s history. 
Biblical subjects were quite prevalent there; for instance, we had Susanna 
and the Elders. A lovely Susanna, mother naked, admiring herself in the 
well water, and the most lascivious-looking Elders admiring; in the middle 
distance, a pretty little girl and boy, quite naked, were playing prettily 
with each other. The scenic effects were splendid. Maudie confessed that 
she had the help in that line of a very well-known French actor manager, 
and that an English actor manager had put his scenic stock at her disposal.

Potiphar’s wife was well treated. A naked Mrs. Potiphar had just rent the
garment from the fleeing Joseph, who, with one hand attempting to conceal 
his genitals, was rushing from the room.

Mrs. Potiphar, who blazed with jewels, was of a pronouncedly Egyptian 
type, sinuous and wicked-eyed. In Joseph, Charlie had not the slightest 
difficulty in recognizing a prominent young Jewish stock-jobber.

Where had he been in London all this time, and never heard of this place 
and their goings-on? he wondered.

Samson and Deliah—bless my soul—it was the famous wrestler, and very 
little clothes on, and what a Delilah—Maudie herself this time.

In Samson Agonistes, Samson was unencumbered with clothing. In the fight 
between David and Goliath, the giant had been, by some ingenious 
photographic trick made to look a very real giant, and his John Thomas was 
a thing like a quarter-staff, his balls like melons.

A sweetly pretty little David stood boldly forth in the foreground, 
aiming the sling.

There were some pictures of the historic intimacy between David and 
Jonathan which left little to the imagination.

We have missed the earlier episode of the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve 
were very frankly naked and unashamed in several positions, and there were 
the dearest possible little Cain and Abel.

The scene where, after the fall (which, by the way, was realistically 
treated), the man and woman get themselves clothed was admirably arranged.

The strange behaviour of Lot’s daughters, when they sat in turn on their 
poor old father’s prick and got themselves in the family way, was 
reproduced in detail, as also was Onan’s strange behavior to his sister, 
when he foolishly spilt his seed on the floor.

King David and Bathsheba on the roof, and later on the same pair in bed, 
were fully illustrated.

A rabble rout of delightfully pretty naked children of both sexes pursued
the aged prophet—in fact, there were several Biblical scenes in which the 
fact that the little ones did not wear clothes was insisted on—also their 
little habits of relieving nature.

Of other historical pictures, ancient Greece and Rome were mostly 
represented, especially the mythology of the former. A swam (“One of the 
King’s from the Thames,” giggled Maudie) was well on top of Leda—this time 
Maudie again—and Jupiter enveloped Dan in a most cunningly contrived shower
of gold. Venus, Anadyomene, and all the other chances to show the gods and 
goddesses naked were fully utilized, but perhaps the best was Vulcan’s 
revenge on the guilty lovers. Tubby figured always as a very tipsy Silenus.

In fact, everything in history of a picturesquely indelicate tendency was
utilized.

Charlie was loud in his expressions of praise.

“This must be very valuable,” he said.

“Tubby’s papa offered me a good deal above a bit; said he wanted to 
present it to the Manchester Watch Committee.”

Apart from the historical groups, which, of course, included Lady Godiva,
there were some very charming allegorical pictures, in which children 
figured largely. A humourous one was “Fecundity,” in which Tubby and a 
portly dame were surrounded by sons and grandsons, daughters and 
grand-daughters, all dressed like Adam and Eve.

There were pretty modem pictures also, of life behind the scenes, river 
pleasure parties, and many clever snapshots.

“Well, that’ll do for the present,” said Maudie; “come and lunch. I’m 
rippingly hungry, and after lunch we’ll have to get ready for Tubby and 
Aunt Lavinia.”

“I don’t want any lunch, or Tubby, or Aunt Lavinia,” grumbled Charlie. “I
want to go to bed with you for the rest of the day.”

“Oh, you’ll see lots of me in the future. I think you see the 
possibilities of our great idea. This is only a penny peep-show at present.
I, with your help and Tubby’s money, am going to make it world famous.”

Lunch was simple, but very delicate. After the salmon cutlets there was 
just a duck and salad and a light savoury. Only hock cup and Grande Marnier
with the coffee.

They were served by two new maids, whom Charlie had no difficulty in 
recognizing as originals of some of the photos, and in the little page he 
recognized at once the boy David.

“Now,”—Maudie lifted an admonitory finger—“this is the lie.

“Firstly, regarding your presence here. My car knocked you down in 
Kensington last night. You were unconscious, but not bad enough for the 
hospital, so I brought you here.

“To Aunt Lavinia, I am the widow of a Polish count, and I knew Tubby 
abroad. That’s all. Ah, I think I hear the car.”

The hum of the motor drew nearer, like a fury flying on the wind. Charlie
fidgetted uneasily and mechanically turned face downward one or two very 
outre photographs. Aunt Lavinia mattered financially very much indeed, and 
could his charming hostess be trusted?

Maudie was perfectly calm. As the scrunch of the wheels on the gravel 
denoted the arrival, she gave a little final twirl to a kiss-curl, and said
to Charlie: “Kiss me for luck.”

He did, passionately.

The door swung open, and before the footman had time to announce them, 
Lady Lavinia and Tubby were in the room.

CHAPTER THREE - WITH THE NATURE WORSHIPPERS AT MAUDIE’S MANSION

Charlie’s aunt, the Dowager Lady Lavinia M’Cree, was not a woman who 
“came” into rooms, nor could she be said to “enter” them, or even “rush” or
“burst” or “sweep” in. She was there all of a sudden, before you had any 
idea of her arrival. Charlie was kissed, and Maudie warmly shaken hands 
with.

“How are you, Charlie? How foolish of you to be knocked down; I’m sure it
was very good of this lady to knock you down. Of course you were drunk, so 
like your poor father. If there’d have been motorists about to knock him 
down and look after him, he’d have never got into the Thames at Westminster
Bridge, thinking it was his bath, and caught his death.

“And so my dear, you are Countess Orloffsky. Of course you must be 
sister-in-law or something of poor Paul Orloffsky; I know him well. He 
married his cook, and she poisoned him with “rough on rats” in a pate, or 
something, and married the butler and they took a hotel in Switzerland and 
had so many children. I fear he was a sad lot, my dear, your 
brother-in-law, I mean, not the butler, just like Charlie’s father, and 
Charlie—but now that he has found a friend in you, I know you will have an 
immensely good influence. And that dear, good Mr. Evans-James, too, I do 
wish Charlie could see more of him—such a good influence.”

Tubby, who had been stifling a silly giggle, now almost exploded.

“So good of you, my dear, to let me use your car, such nice things, and 
so convenient, especially for people like Mr. Evans-James, being so fat, 
and unable to get about for his good works. His dear mother tells me how 
often he has to be away from town, seeing after his camp missions.”

The old lady, having rattled this out at express speed, shut up as 
suddenly as she had begun, and sat down.

When she had been borne away to tidy up, Tubby took Charlie into the 
smoking room.

Tubby was a very fat little man, with an exceptionally solemn cast of 
countenance, except when drunk, which was not infrequent. He had more money
than he knew what to do with, and he welcomed anyone who would help him 
spend it as a benefactor.

“I say, old chap,” he said, “this is a go:”

“Oh I think your lady friend’ll carry it off—auntie won’t stay long.”

“I’m not so sure about that; she’s after me and those damned camps that 
I’ve talked so much about. The place at home is full of photos of ‘em. 
Maudie faked ‘em here. There’s a wonderful studio here y’know—perhaps she’s
shown it you?”

“She has.”

“Oh, I say, you mustn’t be upset or anything—but this is a hot shop, 
y’know. Well, I thought it too hot even to ask you. Oh, I say, did you 
really get knocked down by Maudie and the car? I could have sworn I saw you
coming out of the Empire, boozed as a cockbird. You didn’t go and pick her 
up anywhere, did you?”

“Of course not; she wouldn’t. She’s been talking of nothing but you.”

“Bless her little heart! Well, we must make the most of it, Maudie says. 
You’re staying the night. All the maids put out y’know,” he giggled, 
fatuously. “Try little Jessie.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, old chap. I don’t do much of that sort of thing.”

“Nor do I; not ‘cos I don’t like it, y’know, but I’m so fat, and it’s 
such a dashed sweat. Like seeing other chaps do it much better. Lots of 
that here; oh, it is a hot shop. Pa’s been here; he-he! Gad, if your old 
aunt tells him. I must put Maudie up to the settlement camps business. 
Well, I must go and wash. You had the green room, artichoke, I call it, 
next to ours last night, m wake you tomorrow morning.”

Charlie had fully determined to take this job on. He foresaw but little 
trouble over the Tubby business. He would make himself so useful that he 
knew he would be forgiven anything.

After dinner that night he begged to be excused. Sitting alone in the 
little smoking room, he began to think out his plans.

It was a great idea. With that wealth, he could ransack Europe for girls.
Wasn’t it better than 300 a year and the secretaryship of a club? And if, �
in duty bound to Tubby, he mustn’t go wrong with Maudie, for whom he 
already felt an almost ungovernable lust, there certainly would be no lack 
of others.

At that moment one of the pretty maids came in without knocking.

“Oh, mistress’s compliments, sir, and she’d forgotten to give you the key
of the wine and spirit cupboards; there they are. I’ll open them.”

She brought out the necessaries, also a pile of books.

“Mistress says you might like these, too,” she giggled. “Let me show you 
the best,” and she flicked over the pages of an obviously very erotic book,
full of coloured plates of lust in every form. “Saucy, aren’t they? Look at
this.”

It portrayed three couples, hopelessly mixed up, tongues, lips, cocks and
cunts in helpless and joyful confusion.

She put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder, playfully flicking his ear and, 
bending over, kissed his forehead, pressing her breasts against the back of
his head.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” she cooed; “so are all the girls. We like you. 
I’m going to bring your hot water up tonight; mind you’re awake.”

Charlie couldn’t help it. He pulled her round onto his knee. She put his 
hand under her clothes herself, and wriggled.

“It’s all right,” she said; “no one will come in. This is what I’m best 
at,” and she slipped between his legs and undid the fly buttons with her 
teeth.

“You little devil!” was all Charlie could say.

A confused, gurgling noise was the only answer—his prick seemed to be 
halfway down her throat.

He nervously fingered her head—she had deliciously soft hair—and gave 
himself to an abandon of lust.

She gently tickled his balls till his cock seemed to throb like a 
motorcycle engine, and, well, it couldn’t last forever; he spent like 
Niagara.

The pretty girl threw back her head and gulped it down.

“I say, old chap,” came Tubby’s voice from behind, “you’re beginning 
early, y’know, and you’ve got the nicest, by God, y’have. I say, your 
aunt’s looking for you, and she’s going to stay the night, and what the 
devil are we going to do, what, what?”

The pretty maid stood up, blushing, and hung her head.

“You’d better be off, my dear,” said Tubby; “and for heaven sake, be 
careful what you do or say when that old lady’s in the house.”

When they were alone, Charlie apologized.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, old chap. You can do what you like to the 
girls, but it’s your aunt—quick, for God’s sake put those books away; I 
hear a rustle.”

Charlie was just in time. Lady Lavinia was in the room just as the 
cupboard door slammed.

She sniffed at the collection of liquors.

“As I thought, drinking, and solitary drinking. Why couldn’t you be like 
your friend and come in the drawing room for a little music?

“And what’s this?” She picked up a maid’s cap from the floor. “One of the
servants’ caps! What’s it doing here?”

“Oh, I suppose she must have dropped it,” answered Charlie, pettishly. 
“I’ll come down to the drawing room now. It’ll be bed-time in a few 
minutes.”

In the servants’ quarters of the house, discussion as to the identity and
raison d’etre of the new guests ran rife.

Young men of the world like Charlie were no new thing, but Aunt 
Lavinia—in such a house—well!

“Such particular instructions I’ve had to clear her room of anything 
saucy,” said the old housekeeper, gossiping in her room with the butler and
the chauffeur; “and I’m to take ‘er tea myself, let none of them ‘ussies go
near.

“It makes me fair nervous, it do. Not that I altogether ‘old with these 
games ‘ere, but we’re all in it, with our eyes open—oh, dear, if she should
see some of them pictures!”

” ‘Twould be a to-do, and no error,” said the butler.

“And the good lady she tink Mr. Bertie so good young man vas—ha! ha!” the
chauffeur laughed viciously. “She into what you call a ‘omet’s nest got, is
it not?”

In the greater servants’ hall speculation was also rife; guests seldom 
arrived at that house except in very large parties, in motor loads at a 
time, as a rule. And as for mistress bringing home a single young man, she 
hadn’t done such a thing for years.

No one had seen his condition when he arrived except the chauffeur, who 
had maintained a dogged silence. He had been told to do so, and his job was
too good to lose.

They were a free and easy lot in the upper servants’ hall at Maudie’s, 
with a very large preponderance of women—mere girls, many of them, and all 
pretty. In fact, the house was ridiculously overstocked with females. There
was nothing for them to do save when the very big parties were on, and then
they were more required for the photography than anything else.

There were only two men, both deft-handed servants, and both French, and 
a French-American cook, who was rather a wet blanket on the general 
irresponsibility of the girls. There remained the page-boy, and several 
other very young boys and girls who helped in the scullery.

The girls did not care much for the two Frenchmen, and the cook thought 
of nothing at all but inventing new dishes; hence the joy with which 
Charlie was received.

It was an appetizing scene. Everything in the house was done, and the 
girls sprawled in varied alluring dishabilles. It was a hot night, and they
wore only drawers and chemise, or chemise only, or drawers and vest, and 
one or two, vest only. Two were quite naked. The room was very comfortable 
to lounge in, and Maudie didn’t care what happened so long as she was 
waited on quickly. Two girls remained dressed, ready to see their mistress 
and Lady Lavinia to bed when rung for.

The page-boy was in general request, fetching coffee and cigarettes, and 
came in for a good deal more petting than was good for him. In fact, he was
quite blase. The warm caress of a semi-naked divinity had no effect on him.

They disappeared to bed by degrees, till only Elsie and May were left.

“Are you going to take the new gentleman any hot water?” queried May.

“Yes,” answered Elsie.

It was she who had come into the smoking room.

“May I follow you?”

“A good half-hour after me. I tell you, dear, I need something badly; I 
haven’t had my legs opened for a week, and it’s just about time. You come 
in later, and we’ll see what the two of us can make him do; he’s got a rare
big ‘un.”

“Right.” And they sealed the compact with a kiss.

There are few things prettier than the sight of two pretty women who are 
both lustful, and who really care for each other, kissing as if they meant 
it.

*

Upstairs, after two whiskies and sodas, which she was not accustomed to, 
Aunt Lavinia became first garrulous, then sleepy. After her departure, the 
three culprits first looked serious, then giggled.

Maudie spoke first.

“Look here, Tubby,” she said, “the Lord blew Charlie against my 
carburetor. I recognized him, and brought him here for a purpose.

“That purpose I have explained to him, and will to you. I want him to 
entirely supervise our photographic and theatrical seances. What do you 
think?”

“Oh, I think he’d do admirably,” said Tubby, a little doubtfully; “but 
what does Charlie think?”

“Oh, I’m game enough.”

“Then let’s call it a deal right off,” said Maudie. “I know you two boys 
will get on ripping. We’ll just have a nightcap, and so, like Mr. Pepys, to
bed.”

*

Tubby rolled over in bed and grunted, then he kissed his bedfellow and 
was immediately asleep. Maudie sighed. She had had a great deal too much of
this of late. She thought over the events of the day, and longed for 
Charlie. For one wild moment she recollected how firmly Tubby slept, and 
contemplated making a dash for Charlie’s room—but prudence prevailed. She 
mustn’t jeopardize the future. She took up a book, Nadia, a lustful 
romance, and tried to read herself to sleep, but in vain. Her blood boiled,
and at last she woke up Tubby roughly.

“Tubby, dear, I must and will be fucked,” she said. “You hardly ever 
touch me, and yet you expect me to be true to you. Come on.”

Tubby acquiesced sadly. His extreme stoutness made it quite impossible 
for him to attack in the old Adam-and-Eve fashion. He had to do it as the 
beast of the field. He got out of bed and turned Maudie over its edge. 
Then, without seeming in the slightest enraptured by the sight of her snowy
white buttocks, he deliberately plunged his sausage-like machine into that 
gap which should only have been reserved for connoisseurs.

Of course he liked it; he was very healthy, and full of good food and 
wine, and his penis swelled enormously as his strokes increased in vigour. 
Maudie lay on her stomach, her pretty little face buried in the lace-edged 
pillow, and her brain, behind her closed eyes, just a blissful vision of 
Charlie.

Oh! If it had only been Charlie!

The fact is known that sometimes women who are madly lustful for 
particular men, when forced to be carnal elsewhere, derive really more 
pleasure from the beatific dream of their fancied darling—who in a vision 
is responsible for the flesh spasms which the unseen operator 
manipulates—than they do when the real darling is in the saddle, so to 
speak.

Maudie certainly loved it, and she was only just conscious enough of what
had happened to bite her tongue to keep from crying “Charlie” as the last 
violent stroke from her fat lover sent a hard-shot torrent right up to the 
doors of her womb.

“My God,” she thought, “I really believe Tubby has copped me this time.”

She hastened to syringe, a precaution she seldom took with her fat lover.

Tubby, on his part, sank exhausted into an armchair.

“You’ve fair whacked me this time, petlet,” he gasped. “I’ve never had a 
fuck like this with you before. What’s come over you?”

The dream was still in Maudie’s brain as she answered vaguely: “How—how 
can you help it, when you love so much?”

When Tubby did turn off to sleep, he dreamed rapturously. Maudie, too, 
slept well; she was thoroughly tired at last. These physical and mental 
fucks combined are pretty fairly damaging to the vitality.

Lady Lavinia, when the pretty maid had helped her out of her clothes and 
given her a nightdress, the decorations of which ill coincided with the 
elderly widow, removed her wig, put her teeth in a glass, and sniffed round
the room.

She could not but approve of the comfort. No detail necessary to coax 
comfort to the weary or lazy bed-goer was missing.

Maudie had put it to her very delicately that if she had neuralgia—or 
anything—there was “something” in the cupboard.

She had a look, and found, in addition to the “something,” a pile of 
books, one of which she picked out at random.

It was prettily bound, and called Nemesis Hunt. She took it back to bed 
with her, had a very hearty drop of the “something,” and opened it.

A good many readers of this book may have read Nemesis Hunt. They will 
remember that that charming and loquacious lady somewhat lets the tail go 
with the hide in her confessions. A fuck is called a fuck, and there is 
more than fucking in the naive three volumes.

Lady Lavinia’s eyes dilated as she read. Once before, in the very early 
days of her married life, she had been shown a book like this by her 
husband, and she remembered now, with a sigh, what a night they had 
subsequently had.

Her first impulse was to throw down the book in anger. The consciousness 
of her position, her reputation, flashed through her brain—but curiosity 
prevailed, and Lady Lavinia, firmly adjusting her glasses, took another 
strong sip of the “something,” and started seriously in to read the first 
volume of the confessions of Nemesis Hunt.

When young, she had been very pretty, and had been much courted. She had 
loved admiration and had flirted above a bit.

Her short married life with the late earl had been a long round of love 
and lust, and frank sexual enjoyment, but his sudden death had brought 
about an equally sudden revulsion of feeling.

Lady Lavinia had turned suddenly very good, mid-Victorian good. She had 
mourned her husband, and put a great deal of mournfulness into other 
people’s lives by doing so—as have other illustrious widows.

Now there came back a rush of something—it must have been Georgian—and 
she let down the drawbridge.

At the end of the fifteenth page of Nemesis Hunt’s pleasant confessions, 
she decided to leave on the morrow, but to return.

Nemesis was put under the pillow, and in that very ultra-modem house 
there slept what may be described as a memory of Cremorne.

*

Charlie Osmond went to bed with mixed feelings. He had had a very good 
time; he had a prospect of future life in view, which he rather 
welcomed—but, he wanted to be with Maudie—not to be immoral, but to talk. 
It flatly bored him to go to bed.

Outside, the Thames valley looked very peaceful. The dogs, the chickens, 
everything, slept except Charlie, and Elsie and May, who, after seeing to 
the little wants of Lady Lavinia and Maudie, bided their time for an 
invasion into Charlie’s room.

That worthy had his suspicions of impending events. He did not lock the 
door, but sat by the window in his pajamas and gazed peacefully out over 
the moonlit garden and river.

It was altogether rather too nice, too idyllic, and—well, the door 
opened, and Elsie came in without knocking.

She was fully dressed, and carried a tray with hot water and glasses.

Charlie laughed.

“I somehow expected you,” he said; “but don’t you know, it’s very wrong. 
You don’t know what I am, whether I’m married or not, or what trouble this 
might get me into..”

Elsie laughed.

“Well, I’ve done it,” she said. “I meant to from the first moment I saw 
you. Give me a cigarette and a drink, and let me come and sit in the 
window, and you won’t be bored for the next half-hour, I can promise you.”

Elsie curled up on the corner of the window-seat, the moon full on her 
delicate little features, lit the proffered Albany cigarette, sipped a 
little of the whisky and Rosbach, and grinned, frankly grinned.

“I suppose you think it frightful cheek,” she suggested.

“Well, I can’t say I don’t like your cheek,” he replied, and he kissed 
it.

Elsie kissed him back on the lips, and took off her bodice. She had very 
pretty arms, and a gold bangle with a purple enamel medallion, worn just 
above the left elbow, did not make them less attractive.

She had a little more of the Three Star Bushmills, stood up and slid her 
skirt off, then her chemise—she wore no petticoats—and to cut a long story 
short, her next sitting-place was on Charlie’s knee, and the next kiss had 
nothing to do with cheeks.

Charlie lifted her onto the bed. Even then, though she was exasperatingly
pretty, he could not help thinking of Maudie.

She curled over him slowly, deliberately and maliciously taking both his 
hands in hers, and rubbing her soft cheeks against his.

There must be something in telepathy, for at the moment, the precise 
moment that Charlie reconciled himself to a connection which he knew would 
be nice, but which he really did not want, save for the exquisite pleasure 
in thinking that Elsie’s arms were Maudie’s, that latter lady saw in a blue
mist of ecstasy the image of a very loving Charlie—poor Tubby being merely 
the engine-driver who drove the imagination of her recklessly lustful 
brain.

Charlie let himself frankly go. There was no light in the room at all, 
bar the shafts of the moon filtering through the swaying trees. The 
silhouetted sky-line and the delightfully placid atmosphere made Charlie 
lazy.

He had some recollection of little tickling fingers swiftly undoing the 
strings of his pajamas, little tickling fingers also playing with an 
already erect member, naked arms twisted round his neck, firm, plump legs 
twisted round his thighs, and—well—he was in—well in—and those soft cheeks 
were most lustfully pressed to his.

Maudie had been very loving, but—all said and done—as he felt all his 
love juice being sucked out of him, this, Charlie couldn’t help admitting, 
was better still.

He came in a long rhapsody; the girl jerked the eiderdown over them, and 
snuggled up. He didn’t know whether she meant to stay the night or not, or 
what the morals of this peculiar house permitted, but it was very 
comfortable.

He was just going to sleep when the door opened very quietly and another 
girl came into the moonlight.

Charlie gave up. He remembered who he was, and determined to die game. 
The “other girl” apologized laughingly, and the original giggled in the 
sheets.

“You don’t mind May, do you?” she said.

“No,” was Charlie’s answer; “but it’s got to stop at May, you and May. If
I’ve got to go through the whole personnel of the establishment, I give 
up.”

May did not answer—but just seemed to slide—just as Elsie had done–out of
her clothes and into bed.

Poor but happy Charlie—he realized quite what a squeezed lemon must feel 
like, but he valiantly did his duty.

May was more placid than Elsie, more tender, more caressing, perhaps, but
Charlie cock was just as stiff as he felt his balls right against the soft 
buttocks of his new love.

It was a long fuck and a delightful one. Elsie, wicked little devil, gave
every help in her power.

She flung back the clothes, and there they lay, three naked bodies in the
moonlight. There was no artificial light save the glow of Elsie’s cigarette
end.

Elsie slipped the pillow down so that her little friend’s bottom was just
correctly raised, and, as Charlie knelt between May’s legs, guided his 
penis dexterously in.

May, of course, was shaved, in the fashion of everyone in Maudie’s 
mansion, and Charlie began more and more to appreciate the added charm of 
the hairless cunt, as he thrust his fingers between their bodies and felt 
the soft, warm, smooth flesh.

Elsie crept right on top of them, her head between Charlie’s legs, so 
that her tongue swept over and over his swelling balls. As his cock slipped
in and out of May, her fingers played with it. May had a large cunt, and 
Elsie’s little finger could slip in beside Charlie’s cock.

Her cunt was on his backbone, and on that she frigged herself—he felt the
warm love moisture much about the same time as he spent himself in May.

He didn’t recollect the actual end, didn’t recollect anything till a 
stream of daylight dazzled him into being, and he found himself alone—with 
two little notes pinned on each side of his broad pillow.

Each read the same: “Thanks so much.”

Only the handwriting and the signatures were different. One “Elsie,” the 
other “May.” He was thoroughly wakened up by the arrival of the page-boy 
with tea and a note.

The note simply ran: “Get down to breakfast as quick as you can—in the 
garden—Tubby’s going—so’s Aunt Lavinia, and we’ve got to talk business.”

*

Aunt Lavinia was “deadly” at breakfast, but she made it plain, in no 
uncertain terms, that she was coming back.

Tubby, rather a weary Tubby, shoveled her into the car, and they 
disappeared with a toot and a cloud of dust.

“Well,” said Maudie, coughing the petrol fumes out of her throat, “I 
shan’t ask you what you’ve done with your night. I want to get to business 
at once. Tubby quite sees the business side of the affair.”

CHAPTER FOUR - LONDON’S LUST MARKET

Near the Barbican is a London street which one would not expect great 
possibilities. All the busy city traffic roars by at the street end, but in
itself it is very unobtrusive.

There, in a large, rambling, old-fashioned house, Charlie Osmond 
established what he liked to call his “office.”

Ugly enough to look at from the outside, the “office” was not without 
attractions within.

Photographs, not so elaborate as in Maudie’s own studio, were 
conspicuous, and the furniture, especially the two lazy divans, very 
comfortable and suggestive.

Here Tubby paid the rent, and here Charlie presided when he was not 
travelling in search of his models.

Maudie had a tiny suite of rooms on the top floor, with a staircase 
leading on to a flat roof.

She sat there one evening, waiting for Charlie, who was due home with—she
hoped—further prey.

The hum of a motor made her look over the low parapet. It was Charlie, 
and the closed car likewise disgorged four cloaked little figures, and 
Elsie.

Maudie went down, just pausing on the way to telephone to Tubby’s club 
the one mystic word, “Tenue,” which, as all our readers possibly know, is 
back slang for cunt.

Charlie came into her room.

“I’ve got four little peaches, all from the north, all with their 
parents’ consent. They run from twelve to sixteen. The last is a hot ‘un, 
and no mistake. She had to sit on my knee as the car was so crowded, and, 
oh, Lord, I have had a horn; I thought my poor John Thomas would burst.”

Maudie laid her hand lovingly on it. It sprang into being again.

“I’m sorry, dear, I can’t oblige,” she said, “but I’m unwell, and very 
badly unwell. I daren’t when I’m like that. Shall I suck you off, or will 
you have Elsie?”

“Well, don’t think me a beast, darling, you know how I love you. I’m so 
damned randy that I feel I must have a good square fuck. Oh, God, take your
hand off, or I shall come in my trousers.”

Maudie rang, and a neat little semi-flapper maid was sent to fetch the 
fuck-to-be.

“Another thing, I’m expecting Tubby, and he still thinks I’m true to him,
bless him.”

“On the sofa, Elsie, and quick. The poor boy’s randy.”

The pretty girl put her tongue out saucily, got quickly on the broad 
sofa, and pulled up her clothes to the waist.

“My word, you have got pretty legs,” said Maudie; “I believe they’re more
perfect than mine. Let’s measure.”

She pulled up her clothes.

“Oh, for God’s sake, come off it,” said Charlie. “I haven’t had a 
blow-through for a week. Neither of your legs is as fine as this,” and he 
produced his throbbing member.

It certainly was a very fine one, and it had been admired all over 
Europe. They’ve got a model in clay of it in Suzette deVries place in the 
Rue Colbert. On his birthday it is hung with ribbons.

“No time for taking down trousers,” he said, and in a twinkling his arms 
were clasped round her shoulders, and her shapely calves were twisted round
his thighs.

Maudie slipped her hand between them to see how close they were.

They might have been a single being. There was not the usual commingling 
of hair, for Charlie was now shaved, in deference to Maudie’s wishes, and 
Elsie, of course, was.

They hardly moved. Most of Maudie’s friends were adepts at what she 
called “thrill fucking.” That barred the rough, piston-like, in-and-out 
thrust, and the consummation was reached after a delicate succession of 
clasps and pressures and limb thrills. Elsie, her hands beneath Charlie’s 
coat, tickled his spine. His hands massaged her back. Their eyelashes met 
in gentle titillation, and their tongues played softly with each other’s. 
Maudie, sitting alongside—the couch was very broad—gently smoothed 
Charlie’s head.

“Oh, I say, y’know, Maudie, you ought to lock the door. It’s damned 
indecent, y’know, Maudie. I’ve got some fellers with me, and they might 
have come in, dashed awkward, y’know.”

Tubby’s voice seemed quite concerned.

“Don’t be jealous, fat-head, you’re going to have a genial afternoon.”

“Good. Oh! I say, who’s the artist on top in the fuck?”

“Only me, old son,” grunted Charlie.

“Then buck up, laddie,” said the fat man, and gave his bottom a sturdy 
smack. “I want to hear what’s going to happen. Fuck on, Macduff, and get it
over.”

Charlie finished with a deep sigh, and uncoupled.

“Now then,” said Tubby, “I’ve got fellers waitin’ There’s old General 
Fitzhugh, randy as a bull, and young Phil Neville, just down from 
Cambridge, and that poet chap with the long hair, Claude Lestrange; he’s 
been making poetry all the way down.”

“I’ll just run down and see the kids,” said Maudie. “Charlie’ll explain.”

“Buck up, old sport, then,” said Tubby; “shove your cock in, and tell us 
all about it. Elsie, run along and syringe: we don’t want you with your 
belly up.”

Charlie explained briefly that he had got some little girls for more 
photography.

“They’re all north country, Newcastle hinnies—the eldest knows above a 
bit, I think, but the others seem innocent children. I’ve had some new 
shaped razors made for you in Sheffield. They couldn’t think what the devil
I wanted them for.”

Maudie met the girls in the little waiting room near the studio. They 
were examining the pictures with interest.

Charlie certainly had done well. Four sweetly pretty faces met Maudie’s 
pleased gaze.

The eldest and tallest, a brunette, had an almost Spanish face—rich, ripe
red lips, and a haughty poise. She was the relic, perhaps, of some Spanish 
Armada prisoner who had dropped his love-stick in a Northumberland wench.

The other three were about the same height. One had a mass of Titian red 
hair and the extreme pallor of skin that goes with it.

The other two were blondes, obviously with Danish and Norse blood in 
them, and with clear blue eyes.

They were all daintily dressed. Charlie had stopped at Manchester and 
seen to that. The eldest had her skirts just below the knee, but the others
showed the knee-cap, and a fringe of pretty frou-frou underclothes.

They were all consciously proud of their obviously unaccustomed finery.

Maudie kissed them, found out their names, made a fuss of them generally,
and gave them tea.

She was alone for a moment with the eldest girl.

“Say, mum,” said the latter, “I’m no kid, and I can see that we weren’t 
brought here only to be pretty little artist’s models. No, I’m game for 
anything, and I expect the kids will be. They can’t read or write, so I’ll 
do the writing home to their mammas; that’ll be best, won’t it?”

It certainly was sensible, and Maudie was very glad. There had been times
when she had been a bit nervous.

Likewise, which was very awkward, there was a little disaffection in the 
camp. May had fallen frankly and openly in love with Charlie, and was 
obviously jealous. Charlie did not return it, but Maudie could not afford 
to have a split, and had almost to beg of him to afford her occasional 
embraces.

If May chose to give things away in the outside world, it might be very 
unpleasant. They were always prepared for flight, motors in readiness and a
big steam yacht, but they did not want to have to fly.

Charlie and Tubby went down to the “office,” or studio. General Fitzhugh 
was tramping round the room, fiercely twisting his moustache, and 
ejaculating ha! at intervals, as he spotted anything particularly tasty in 
the photographs.

Tubby’s undergraduate friend sat meekly, rather uneasily, on a divan, and
the poet wandered soulfully about, humming faintly.

“Ah, General,” said the poet to the old officer, who was very closely 
examining the life-size portrait of a fascinating young lady, and which 
particularly emphasized her vagina, “ah, General, a tempting subject:

–- How sweeter than the horrid clash of arms, The contemplation of those 
naked charms.” –-

The General sniffed; he did not like poetry, nor poets.

“A dashed fine young woman, sir,” he snorted.

The poet persisted:

–- “Dost thou not yearn, oh, son of Mars, to thrust The vibrant signal of
a lusting man Into yon fragrant arbour, there to place In form of sperm 
ambrosial, a fair child? Dost thou not—” –-

But the General turned on him.

“I don’t know what the hell you mean, sir, by all that tomfool nonsense, 
but if you’ve the accursed effrontery to call my cock a ‘vibrant signal,’ 
I’d have you know that the word cock has been good enough for the Fitzhughs
for generations, sir. ‘Vibrant signal,’ indeed, you’ll be calling my 
arse-hole a railway tunnel next.”

“Oh, sir,” protested the poet, ” ‘tis but poetic license.”

“Then you ought to dashed well have your license taken away—and, look 
here, if by ‘fragrant arbour’ you mean that young person’s cunt, I’d have 
you to know that the Fitzhughs call it cunt, sir, and always have. My 
father called it cunt, my mother had a cunt, I came out of a cunt, and many
a cunt have I stuck my good cock into. ‘Fragrant arbour!’ There’s a damned 
good stink attached to some of them, and I like it!

“And furthermore, don’t you refer to my good spunk as ambrosial sperm, or
I’ll toss myself off in your eye, and let you know whether it smells 
ambrosial or not.”

Tubby, overhearing, laughed loud.

Directly afterward, Maudie, followed by her flapper recruits, entered.

The little girls stared about them in amazement, all save the eldest, who
frankly grinned and returned the old General’s ogle with interest.

Elsie entered with a friend of Maudie’s, a middle-aged, Anglo-French 
woman, whom we have not met before in this narrative.

She was a Madame Rade, and had been an actress. Still, the amount of 
money she had made, not at acting, had enabled her to consult her growing 
corpulency, and retire.

She was a jolly woman, very vivacious, and there was very little 
wickedness she was not up to, and expert at. It was she who had taught 
Maudie the art of the “thrill fuck.”

With her came her adopted niece, a little, and very typical, French 
flapper.

Her skirts were short and plaid, her boots, on her slight, delicate legs,
were very high and elegant, and her rather long hair fell in two plaits 
down her back.

Madame was educating her for the stage, equally for a life of smart 
prostitution, and she was having her taught all languages.

“I have seen so much money lost by charming tarts,” she said, “just 
because they could not talk any language but their own. After all, fucking 
is very nice indeed; but a man does like a little love chat, and a student 
of nature does like to be interested. There’s one new brothel in Berlin 
where the girls have regular lessons every day.

“Those girls do score over the lassies whose conversation is limited to 
phrases such as, ‘You fuck my cat; oh, just such nice cat, ten francs.’ ” 
Madame Rade had not let the child go wrong yet; she wanted a big price for 
that precious virginity, but there was nothing the little darling didn’t 
know. Her greeting kiss to Charlie was by no manner of means virginal.

Maudie had explained to the girls that the studies would be in the nude, 
and that they mustn’t mind being inspected by quite a number of artists.

The assembled men were introduced as artists, and then one of the younger
girls was told to undress. She rather timidly asked if she was to do it 
there, or was there a screen.

“Here, of course, darling,” said Maudie; “you’ll soon get used to that. 
Never mind your shoes and stockings this time. We only want to see the 
upper part of your figure now, so that we can tell what sort of picture 
you’ll do for.”

Charlie had bought very pretty underlinen indeed, and as the upper 
garments slid away the little darling was a scrumptious sight. The poet 
sighed voluptuously. He was about to burst into song when he caught the 
General’s eye.

“Oh, one thing,” said Maudie, “I forgot, dearie; have you any hair on 
your body?”

“Yes, a little, mum,” replied the child.

“I’m afraid, then, dear, that you must let that be shaved off. You see, 
all our pictures here have no hair on. It won’t hurt you; don’t be 
frightened, and this gentleman,” pointing to Tubby, “is quite an expert, 
aren’t you, Tub-Tub?”

Tubby grinned; he had been examining the ingenious razors which Charlie 
had brought from Sheffield; no wonder the good Messrs. Rogers had been 
surprised. They were in several shapes, and no steady hand could do 
possible harm.

“Oh, yes, you have, it must be done,” said Maudie as the child stood 
naked, a sea of frou-frou undies round her ankles. The poet could not 
resist it:

–- “Child Venus rising from the sea, No crested waves could fairer be 
Than those sweet frills: Oh, daintier than—” –-

“Young man,” said the General, very severely, “during the mutiny I had 
men blown from the cannon’s mouth for less than that.”

Maudie patted the blushing child on her naked little shoulder, and led 
her to a big chair with a front extension, something like a dentist’s She 
lay back, her little bottom raised on a cushion, her legs wide apart.

Tubby approached with his tray of instruments. The poor little girl 
shuddered and involuntarily closed her legs. This was too much for the 
poet. Waving his hand first toward the girl, and then the General, he 
declaimed:

–- “Back, ruthless youth, oh, spare, oh, spare, I crave, That down 
ethereal. Can’st thou dare to shave The rippling foliage of the Venus Hill?
Turn rather HERE, and work thy vandal will On this brave warrior, used to 
clash of steel. His manly forest clip—” –-

“By God, damme, sir,” roared the General, “if any one dares to lay one 
finger on my bush, I’ll cut off his cock and balls, and make him eat ‘em, 
damme, I will.” Before the poet could answer, a small voice chirped up:

–- “There once was a General brave Who refused his cock whiskers to 
shave, Till the crabs that he got Made him clip off the lot, And didn’t 
that General rave.” –-

It was the young Cambridge undergraduate; the first words he had spoken.

The General did rave.

“Crabs, sir, crabs, you insolent puppy! Look here, sir,” and he ripped 
open his trousers, showing a flabby penis fringed with grey-white hair; 
“crabs, sir, I’ll give you a thousand pounds if you can find one.”

“Oh, la, la!” ejaculated Madame Rade.

“I apologize: I apologize, ladies,” said the General hastily. “I had 
forgotten your presence.”

He put back his penis.

The young man said he had meant no offense, and giggled feebly.

The little patient, consoled by Maudie, opened wide her legs once more, 
and Tubby operated.

First he ran lightly over the slight downy bush with a clipper, then 
lathered it with some sweet-scented soap.

Quickly; with a small razor, he slid off the top part of the bush—the 
child had very little. Then, with rounded razors, he removed the soft, 
glossy down just beginning to show between her legs.

She was quite bare-shaved. Maudie and Elsie brought a basin of 
sweet-smelling liquid with which Tubby anointed the little girl.

Maudie and Elsie withdrew a little, and Tubby was left gazing at his 
work.

An added pink tint to the shaved parts of the child’s flesh seemed to 
accentuate the roseate beauty of her cunt itself.

A little demure debutante of a flower-bud it seemed, half shy to open, 
half conscious of the beauty that should spread to give its honey to the 
expectant bees of mankind.

The little audience was very silent. Tubby seemed to hold the key of the 
situation; something was expected of Tubby.

He went daft all in a second, tore off his clothes, pirouetted nakedly in
front of the child like a porpoise in heat, and threw his head between her 
thighs.

The dainty little legs curled instinctively over his neck; the watchers 
could see his tongue dart into the moss-bare orifice—and the watchers could
also see Tubby’s by no means inconsiderable penis distend itself 
alarmingly.

It throbbed in time to the darts of his tongue; it was like a conductor’s
baton guiding the strokes of that first violin of lust—his tongue and his 
buttocks heaved with it, suggestive of an accompaniment of brass and drums.

Suddenly the little girl’s legs tightened, a happy cry escaped her, and 
her fingers tattooed on Tubby’s head.

For a moment he was quite quiescent, muscles flaccid, penis even 
semi-rigidly pendant.

Then he sprang up, gave a loud cry, and fell upon his penis with his own 
hands.

Two convulsive grips, and he shot a stream of semen amongst his audience.

Then he blushed all over, tomato red from forehead to toe and, forgetting
his clothing, fled from the child’s side.

“The Paean of Silenus,” murmured the poet.

Quickly Elsie sponged the little one’s cunt, wiped dry the rosy lips of 
love’s portal, all humid with the juice of rapture, kissed her on the 
forehead, playfully slapped her bottom, slipped a Japanese kimono onto her,
and beckoned another.

Meanwhile, Tubby had hidden portions of his shame with a towel, and was 
endeavoring to hide his confusion amidst a whisky and soda and Charlie’s 
loud laughter.

“Damme,” he expostulated, “I couldn’t help it, damme if I could. Those 
sort of things come on a fellow so damned sudden like, you know.”

“Oh, Onan, Onan,” it was the poet’s voice, “turn’st thou in thy grave, to
see thy foul example impulsed by a shave, of dainty flappers ‘cunts” But 
Maudie shut him up.

“Quiet, now; here’s another flapper for Tubby, come on Tubby.”

Tubby went forward to the attack; his hand a little shaky perhaps, but 
with a determined glint in his eye.

It was the red-haired girl.

And the Titian glory that covered her head scarcely eclipsed the flaming 
beauty of the curls at the pit of her stomach. Her absolutely dead ivory 
white skin seemed literally to have burst into flame between her thighs and
armpits.

She sat back in the chair, more confidently than the first little one.

Tubby hesitated.

“No, no, damn it, no” cried the General “it’s a wicked cruel shame to cut
that off.”

“I agree,” said the poet, “let, Madam, that flame torch of love remain.”

The general opinion seemed to be the same.

“She shall be the one exception to the rule then,” said Maudie.

The pretty little girl got up, seemingly a little annoyed that she had 
been bereft of Tubby’s affections.

The north country girl, Jeannie Taylor, came next. She was more matured, 
and her figure was almost a woman’s. With frankly lascivious eyes she 
smiled on the onlookers, and lay back on the chair with a tempting wriggle.

Her skin was olive in tint, a pretty contrast to the scarlet of her 
nipples, scarlet which rivaled her lips. The hair on her body curled jet 
black, rich and luxuriant, almost covering the red lips of her cunt.

Tubby saw, as he brushed back the hair, that the moisture came trickling 
to the lips. As he looked into her eyes he read lust incarnate, and he 
could feel a throb of desire as he touched the skin.

Once more his member asserted its manhood, as he knelt, delicately razing
away the hairs, it flung up its head, casting aside the guardian towel; and
when the shave completed, the hairs and the lather washed away—he looked at
the now fully viewed cunt lips, pouting and swelling, almost seeming to 
talk to him, he promised himself more than a mere kiss this time.

He did kiss it, and had gone so far as to get one knee on the chair 
between hers when he was interrupted. Maudie didn’t want her own particular
jewelled-in-every-hole Tubby to get too fond of this sort of thing—with 
others, “We haven’t much time, my Tubby,” she cooed, “so that’ll keep for 
the present. Next lady forward, please.”

The young undergraduate from Cambridge gave a heavy sigh of relief. That 
he intended to be his own bit, if possible.

“Next,” repeated Maudie.

“First lady forward, second lady pass, third lady’s finger up the fourth 
lady’s ass—” hummed the young undergrad, Phil Neville, in remembrance of 
some alleged ballet instructions.

Tubby smilingly obeyed, and Charlie lifted the pretty girl from the couch
and left her to wander among the others, mother naked as she was.

There was no question of the fact that the absence of hair was as 
becoming to her olive skin as the presence of it was to the fiery-haired 
little beauty—Charlie couldn’t help thinking what a lovely sight it would 
be to see sixty-nine between the two—and mentally decided that he would see
it.

Tubby, his frustrated cockstand erectly grinning at his fat stomach, 
sulkily refused to shave any more, and Maudie took the last little girl in 
hand herself.

This last had perhaps the daintiest figure of the quartette, and she was 
the subject of the first photograph.

The magnesium flashed and the naked loveliness was transferred to the 
film.

Once more the flash, and Charlie felt sure he had a beauty, the 
red-haired girl and the dark one, clasped in amorous embrace, arms and legs
intertwined, bodies pressed tight together, and the glorious Titian red 
tresses mingling with the equally voluptuous raven hair. It was only a 
suggestion of wild eroticism—Charlie meant to keep his sixty-nine tit-bit 
till later.

The party broke up, and the word was given out to set forth for Staines 
and the joys of Rosedale.

CHAPTER FIVE - PHIL’S FUCK

The journey was to be made by motor, but there was not quite enough room,
and young Phil, Tubby’s undergraduate friend, developed a stroke of genius.
He volunteered to take Jeannie in a taxi.

They all thought him too young to be harmful, and taxi it was for Jeannie
and he.

London, and such things as taxis, were revelations to Jeannie. Of course,
she had seen plenty of motors up north, but she had never been in one. She 
hadn’t much idea where she was going. Phil, her young companion, explained 
that it was a long way, but she felt deliciously comfortable.

He wasn’t quite certain what to do. There was time to do a good bit 
before Staines.

“Had any dinner?” he said.

“Not yet,” the lady said, “we should when we get there; where is ‘there,’
by the way?”

“Oh, it’s a jolly place. You’ll love it; every sort of comfort, but it’s 
a bit hot, you know.”

“I guessed that; I’m not quite silly, though I haven’t been to Lunnon 
before.”

He took her to Frascati’s, expecting her to be open-eyed.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” he queried.

“It isn’t the Midland at Manchester,” she answered. “Mr. Osmond took us 
there, and we had a lovely time, such lovely bedrooms.”

So Charlie has done his little charges pretty well, Phil thought.

“Did you sleep alone?”

“Ah, that’s telling.”

But the second glass of champagne loosened her tongue. When he repeated 
the question, she admitted, with a good many blushes, that she “hadn’t 
exactly.”

“He was an actor,” she said, “awfully good-looking, and he sat opposite 
us at dinner, and Mr. Osmond took us to the theatre, and he was just 
lovely, and I saw him again in the winter garden, and I heard him ask the 
waiter who we were, and I saw him give the waiter something, so I suppose 
he got the number of my room. At any rate, about one I heard a tapping… 
and… well, I didn’t know whether it mightn’t be Mr. Osmond, but I opened 
the door—and he shut it behind me, and locked it, and put the key in his 
pajama pocket before I knew what he was doing.”

“What infernal cheek!”

“He was awfully nice about it.”

“Did he…?”

“Of course he did—four times.”

“You little devil!”

“Yes, and he gave me a fiver, and told me he’d take me on, at once, in 
his company, if I’d go. Of course, I’d promised Mr. Osmond, but I should 
have liked it. That wasn’t my first time, you know.”

What?”

“No, the first was the timekeeper at the works. He forced me, and then 
got me the sack because I told father. He was a beast. Then there was an 
old man who used to deal with father—father’s a dog-stealer, I mean a 
dog-dealer. He took me to Blythe for the night. I think father knew—he 
seemed to have more money than usual just after that. I only got a new 
frock. He was a nasty old man, used to make me run round the room naked and
smack my bottom.

“He was good to us, though when father got into trouble over the prize 
bulldog he st—that got lost, he kept all of us.

“Then there was a Japanese sailor officer, over for building a ship.”

“And the actor of Manchester was the next and last?”

“Yes.”

“And who’s going to be the next?”

The girl sipped her champagne, looked Phil straight in the eyes, and 
grinned.

*

The taxi swung through the West End and into the Hammersmith road.

Jeannie was on his knees, a little excitedly intoxicated and very loving.

She was commenting on the way the two-pences jumped up, when Phil had an 
idea.

He put his hand right up her clothes, and met with no opposition.

“Am I to be the next?”

“Of course, you silly.”

“Well, I’ve got an idea. You sit on it, and watch the taxi-dial. You sit 
absolutely still, with your arms round me, and every time it changes you 
jump up and down once, and every time you do that you get five bob. It 
ought to take me about five miles to fuck you at that rate, or more. That’s
�1 a mile; is that a bet?”

“Of course, dear; it’s a lovely idea.”

He put her on, she had to sit with her back to him, and every quarter of 
a mile till Hounslow Heath she bobbed deliciously. It worked out at about 
�7.

Phil came rapturously. He had never enjoyed a fuck so much before—the 
flashing lights that passed them; it was getting dusk—the whole novelty of 
the thing, and the obvious enjoyment of the girl, coupled with her extreme 
prettiness, made it a thing to be always remembered.

Thus was originated Phil’s Fuck, which subsequently became almost world 
famous.

Throughout the big cities of the continent of Europe, of America, and 
even of Asia, young men and old patronized the taxi, and ran bumping races 
with nature. With some it came very expensive. London to Brighton costs a 
bit, when the prices per quarter mile are not so moderate as Phil’s When 
they pulled up in the swelling moonlight at the little village of 
Bedfont—for drink, and to repair disorders–Phil’s trousers were drenched.

The charm of the tiny hamlet, its old church and oddly cut, bird-shaped 
trees made them both absurdly romantic—Phil especially—and he nearly threw 
his heart, hand, very considerable fortune and chance of an earldom at the 
feet of a dissolute little Newcastle hinny.

Jeannie, to digress a little, had in the time to come a very interesting 
career. After we’re done with her in this story she becomes a sort of 
second Otero, the toast of Europe, and married—well, you’ll have to wait 
for subsequent volumes of Nemesis Hunt and Pleasure Bound for that. It 
first amazed, then scandalized, and ended up by delighting the civilized 
world.

But to go back. Phil kept himself under; he thought of his mother and 
father, and the family solicitor.

Maudie’s house, Rosedale—I had forgotten to mention the name before—was 
ablaze with light when the taxi swept up the drive.

Phil felt, somehow, as he paid the fare, that the jumped-up tuppences 
were dear in comparison to Jeannie’s five-bob jerks. He lied glibly to 
Maudie, and they found they were in time for dinner after all.

Jeannie was hurried upstairs to find a flapper evening dress; the other 
girls were already dressed.

The dinner company was oddly assorted. All our friends, of course: Maudie
in a sumptuously dazzling evening gown, her friend Madame Rade very 
decolletee and Parisienne—but Elsie and May had returned to being servants.

The poet and the General had stopped en route in town to get evening 
clothes; Phil was excused.

Charlie looked very distinguished and handsome, and wore an order of 
barbaric design. It had been conferred by an Asiatic potentate for swapping
a little Scotch girl he had acquired for a flower of the Sultan’s harem. 
Madame Rade’s little niece wore a quaintly babyish frock, and talked to the
poet in outrageously indelicate Parisian argot.

Maudie’s beautiful dining room was softly, delicately and eccentrically 
lighted. Apart from a great cluster of electric globes hanging from the 
carved ceiling, and very heavily shaded, little electric lights appeared 
from the most unexpected places. In one corner a tall statue of Venus 
showed pin pricks of light from the nipples. A large bronze of the 
Brussell’s “Mannikin Pis” diffused some sweet-smelling scent into a crystal
basin before him.

The waiting was very deft and quick, nor was the dinner elaborate, so 
that its course was quick.

Short though dinner was, Maudie had not forgotten to see that the viands 
served a lust-compelling purpose, and the wines were chosen to heat the 
blood, leading carefully up to the idea-forming champagne.

Madame Rade was the wit of the table; Maudie didn’t talk much, she was 
thinking too much of her new little charges—also of Charlie, whom, she 
began to fear, she had rather too sneaking a regard for.

After dinner the big studio-cum-theatre was sought. The blinds rolled 
back from the great skylights showed the star-fretted sky, and a bright 
half-moon competed with the green-shaded lamps of the great room. Here all 
was green, in contrast to the rose of the dining room.

The guests sat about on divans, or reposed on cushions and rugs on the 
floor, and there was music, very soft and suggestive. Maudie did not intend
tonight to go in for any very elaborate entertainment. There was to be a 
little dance of Charlie’s, a semi-proper one, later—meanwhile, the guests 
could get to know each other better, and enjoy themselves.

The old General paired off with one of the pretty servants, who seemed to
enjoy a joint personality of servant and convive. She lit his cigar for 
him, brought him his coffee and liqueur, and reclined on the great divan by
his side, boldly showing her leg well up to the frill of the drawers.

She did not stir an inch when the General passed his old hand lustfully 
right up her leg and onto her cunt. She promised softly to come to his room
late that night, where he might do whatever he liked.

Young Phil had been undone in his competition for Jeannie by the poet, 
but found consolation in the red-haired girl.

They wandered from the house to the moonlit garden, and by the riverside 
he first kissed her, and then felt her. She told him she was a virgin, but 
had been sick of her quiet life in the north, and had been tempted. She 
didn’t quite know what was going to happen to her, but could guess.

Phil found her very loving, and with luck they found the private bathing 
shed, with luck also the electric light switch.

She looked very lovely, and Phil, though he had been earlier romantic 
with Jeannie, felt he had full room enough in his heart for two.

The night was so very warm that even in this semi-out-of-doors it was 
pleasant to undress. Phil made her do it, made her stand in her naked 
beauty in the moonlight, then lifted her back onto the cushions in the 
shed—and she was really a virgin.

Poor Phil, a little weary after his taxi-fuck, had a painful struggle, 
and the girl cried out in pain, but—when the fatal barrier was passed, the 
last twisting ecstasy of painful pleasure—it was all joy.

Phil rummaged about the shed and found that hot water was actually laid 
on from the house, and that every washing convenience conceivable was 
available; it was indeed a beautifully complete maison de la chair. He 
bathed her hot little cunt: it had bled very little, and had a short swim 
himself. They walked back to the house happily, hand in hand.

More people were in the studio when they returned. A motor had brought a 
little party from London, two very smart girls and two irreproachable young
men about town.

The blinds were drawn, and the lights turned on full. The company was 
obviously expecting something.

It came in the shape of a “semi-proper” dance.

It was called The Dance of Emancipation.

First the dainty little trottin of the Boulevards—band-box on arm, 
tripping rather than dancing—gaily, irresponsibly—round the stage, all in 
pantomime, the pursuit of the elderly admirer—La Debacle.

Scene II. The smart horizontale in all her glory, dancing, semi-naked, to
her own reflection in the cheval glass.

Scene III. The dance of the end—beginning, as you would expect, by 
impending death. She is in bed. The room is not so smart.

To her come dancing, grinningly, the clown, Arlequin, Pantaloon and the 
doctor; and Columbine.

She raises herself; she fears, she stumbles from bed, her hair is awry, 
she dances awkwardly. Columbine pirouettes mockingly—one expects always the
end—but Arlequin waves a smack of his wand across the doctor’s chest. The 
doctor starts; he gives to the girl the phial—in a moment all in her is 
life again. She flicks her fingers, and she is still dancing as her old 
self as the lights face gradually away—till in utter and absolute darkness,
you hear the gray flutes. That is all.

The audience woke from its hush, and took very resolutely to supper.

CHAPTER SIX - MADAME RADE’S IDEA

Supper over—a cheery, chatty little supper—there came the necessary 
sorting out of the visitors for bed. Maudie did not mean to thrust couples 
upon each other, so she gave each man a separate room. She herself slept, 
of course, with Tubby, but she put Charlie alone. Jeannie alone of the 
flappers she put in a room by herself, delicately insinuating to Phil that 
his room was adjoining, and had a communicating door. The other three 
flappers were together next to the General. Beyond him was the little head 
page-boy. The rest of the personnel of the house were in a separate wing, 
and among them the poet, who had begged to be nearest the sky—so he went up
to a daintily furnished garret, facing four ways to the skies.

Thither he was shown by a plump, semi-flapper servant, of whom he had 
hopes, but who banged the door and did him in.

Sorrowfully he undressed, regretfully surveyed his slim, naked form in 
the long cheval glass, and mournfully stared out at and over the moon-swept
Thames valley. It was very beautiful, but the poet was not inspired, he was
carnally mundane. His penis stood up in mockery; he gazed at the lights of 
the windows of the opposite wing, and distinctly saw the silhouettes of two
figures in close and rapt embrace. He could stand it no longer; firmly 
grasping his staff of love, he gazed wistfully at the moon and brazenly 
tossed himself off on the lawn below.

Then, with a sigh, he got into his very elaborate flowered silk pajamas, 
sprayed himself elaborately with some perfume which smelt like honey, and 
sank back into the luxurious bed It was very comfortable. The lights were 
all that could be wished for night reading. Drinks were at his hand, and 
Maudie had given him a little key which she said opened a cupboard of 
erotic books.

He found a full selection. He felt that as a poet—and several society 
weekly papers had said so—he ought to have chosen Catullus or Verlaine, but
he didn’t His fingers lingered for a while over a little brochure called 
Fucksome Frolics, but they ended up with that dear delightful work, the 
confessions of Nemesis Hunt. With a violently wicked scene between “Nemmy” 
and her foreign prince lover, we will leave him; the scented breath of a 
cigarette mingled pleasantly with the fumes of whisky and a solid 
determination on his part not to stay another night alone in this house.

Madame Rade undressed her little niece, unplaited the pretty hair, and 
looked at her for a moment or so. The naked form was very sweet.

“En bien, tanta, que penses tu?” said the child.

“Les betises,” answered the elder woman. “Toinette, cherie, il fen faut 
un homme, et un homme riche, riche a millions. Attends, petite chatte. Ce 
sont ici des hommes tres comme if faut, richismes, galants et genereux au 
bout des ongles. Faut choisir, ma mie, avec beaucoup de soin.” Then, 
breaking into English—“You must promise, child, not to let a man absolutely
have you unless I give my consent. Let him do anything else if you like, 
lead him on, fondle him, let him kiss you, but he must not put it in.” 
Toinette, smiling roguishly, intimated that she understood.

“In this house,” went on Madame Rade, meditatively, “there are, firstly, 
the little fat man, Tubby; he is the richest, but he belongs to Madame, our
hostess.

“There are then Monsieur the poet; he is also rich, but more fond of 
himself than women. Also too, M. le General Fitzhugh, very rich, but old, 
very old.”

“And M. Charlie?” queried the child, interestedly. “Charlie, oh yes, very
charming, but poor, poor, very poor is Charlie—you must not look there.”

“Two nice men motored down tonight.”

“Them I do not know, but each has his madame.”

“One is Mr. Flowers, of Flowers and Grapes”—Madame gasped—“and the other 
is Lord Saxeholme. One of the girls told me.”

“My child,” murmured Madame maternally—“they are both millionaires. Now 
go to bed”—And she bundled the little darling into her little bed by the 
window, and sat down to think.

She had not been to Maudie’s house before, and had no idea quite what 
wealth it represented.

It was now or never, she decided, with Toinette. The child was nearly 
fifteen. She herself, though fairly well off, could not give her a big dot.
Besides, she wanted her kept, not married.

The pretty child lay peacefully asleep in a little bed by the window. 
Madame decided to consult Maudie.

She had been told she could ring all night She did. A maid was 
immediately on the spot, and very shortly a message came that Maudie would 
see her.

Madame Rade hurried down the corridor; she was a little nervous and she 
narrowly escaped the General, who was lying in wait.

“Maudie,” she said, when the latter had explained that it didn’t matter 
about Tubby, that nothing short of physical violence woke him up, “Maudie, 
I want to talk to you about little Toinette. If she stays here much she’ll 
get raped somehow, but I don’t intend to have it done for nothing. What am 
I to do?

“Now, dear, I know you need money. What about a race with the child’s 
maidenhead as a prize? These rich men would go in, and then,—if the one who
wins it wants to keep her,—well and good. Make it a running handicap, and 
put the child on a pedestal as a prize, eh?”

Maudie agreed readily.

“I’m going to have the sports after the photography, the day after 
tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll guarantee there’s a rattling good entrance fee. 
We women will frame the handicap. I envy the man who gets that little bit 
of love for the first go.”

Madame Rade went back quite satisfied. The General was no longer waiting 
to pounce. He had.

He had rung the bell without thinking, and a pretty girl came. It was a 
simple, business-like proceeding, but the old gentleman did better than he 
expected, and enjoyed the best sleep he had had for some time.

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE “KANGAROO” FUCK

Notes were sent round in the morning that guests could lunch and 
breakfast when they liked, but that everyone was requested to be in the big
studio at 1:30. The earliness of the hour was because of the light.

The seance to come was to consist of the proper shaving of the other 
flappers, and the subsequent photographing of them. There were also a few 
little and middle-sized boys, mostly Italian, who had also to go through 
the ordeal.

Charlie, as soon as he had disposed of his aunt, had sent for Jeannie. He
decided she would be invaluable as a leader of the flapper lot.

He was sitting rather moodily in his room, vaguely annoyed about May, and
about his Aunt Lavinia, when Jeannie came. He had scarcely noticed before 
how really very pretty the girl was.

She came up to him and bent down to be kissed, in the most natural 
manner. The kiss ended, with the girl on his knee and his hand up her 
clothes. He could feel that there was a little bristle already, even after 
only one day’s shaving.

“There’s going to be some fun today, ain’t there?” she queried.

“Yes, dear, very funny fun.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

She wriggled her cunt right over his finger. He had never had that done 
to him before.

“Where did you learn that, you little monkey, where did you learn that?” 
he asked, as her cunt contracted in a vise-like grip.

“Oh, I had a Japanese lover.”

She told him the story we have heard before, and then he asked for more 
Japanese tricks.

“Clothes’ll be in the way; come on, I’ll undress you.”

She had his shirt and flannel trousers and slippers—he was still in his 
bathing rig—off in a jiffy, and playfully smacked his great rigid tool.

She wouldn’t let Charlie help her, but slid out of her light summer frock
like a practised quick-change artist.

“Have you ever tried a kangaroo fuck?”

“No.”

“Well, it is rather difficult, but very nice, and as I’m very light, and 
you’re so big and strong, we ought to manage.

“I take a little run, and jump for your neck, throwing my legs open to go
right round your waist. If you’re clever you catch me just under the 
armpits, and my cunt fits perfectly over your cock. If you don’t catch me 
properly, I get a nasty blow in the stomach with that stiff ram-rod of 
yours. Are you game?”

Charlie was game, and at once. He stood waiting for the spring like a 
wrestler waiting for his adversary. His muscles stood up under his white 
skin, and his penis seemed almost bursting, so tense were the veins.

Jeannie kissed him lightly once, her tongue just brushing his lips, gave 
him one resounding smack on the buttocks, and retired about seven feet.

She clapped her hands, gave what seemed to Charlie a few kangaroo-like 
bounds, and was in his arms—and not only in his arms, but he had judged her
spring to perfection, and the soft pulsating walls of her cunt were 
throbbing round his staff of very much life.

He was almost brutal to the girl—something made him forget his great 
strength—and he almost crushed the little dear.

“Carry me round the room, dear,” she whispered hotly in his ear, “and get
very, very slowly on your back on the sofa, but for heaven’s sake, don’t 
jerk it out, and keep it right so that there isn’t a bit of an inch to show
between us, and then I’ll show you how to finish a fuck.”

He got down, very gently indeed.

She smacked his face to emphasize her words.

“Now, I don’t suppose you’ve had it this way, you fucking sod,” she 
muttered—she was mad with lust now—“and if you come before I want you to, 
or let your cock get just one little bit loose—I’m going to use it as a 
lever—you’ll never fuck me again.”

Very slowly she lifted up her legs till they were almost parallel with 
the flanks of her soft, vibrating body, clasped them round with her arms, 
and twisted her little fingers behind her curly-haired head.

Then she began to sway—it was a wonderful, rythmic movement, and it 
appeared almost marvellous that the girl could keep her balance.

Once or twice Charlie lifted his hands; fearful she would fall, but with 
a clench of the lips and a flash of the eyes, she bade him put them down.

“Now… now,” she said dreamily, “as I put my legs very slowly down, just 
let your… your spunk drift down till my knees are on the bed, and we’ll 
just come wonderfully together. Stare straight into my eyes, darling, and 
by our eyes we can gauge the final spasm to the absolute tick of a 
second—now watch me.”

There was something snake-like in the fascination of her stare as she 
gradually brought her legs down. It seemed to Charlie at first almost a 
superhuman effort to keep from madly clutching her and crushing her on to 
his stomach.

But gradually he came under the magnetism of her devilish eyes—he could 
almost feel that she was pumping the semen up his cock—a cock that to him 
now seemed almost a detached thing—he was fucking with his brain, not his 
penis—with a power from her eyes acting back on her brain.

At last her knees touched the bed. She threw her arms straight above her 
head, clapped her hands, screamed some strange Japanese-sounding jargon, 
and Charlie shut his eyes while a mist of wondrous colours floated across 
the cinematograph sheet of his brain—a mist illumined with—well, when the 
present writer asked Charlie to describe it, Charlie frankly admitted that 
he could not. It was a dream of lovely women, and always eyes, eyes, eyes 
of lust, he was being fucked by eyes.

Jeannie’s voice brought him to his senses. She was standing by his side, 
her hands on her hips, looking down quizzically.

“Well?” she queried.

“God almighty,” groaned Charlie, “if there are any more at home like you 
in Newcastle, that’s where I die.”

“You’re to thank Tokyo, and a little innate impulse for that, darling,” 
she said; “but it’s mainly Jap—and your cock; very few men could have kept 
me up like that, and now I’ve gone and fallen in love with you.”

Charlie didn’t dare answer, except by a shower of kisses all over her 
body, which she returned with interest. She kissed what remained of the 
semen from his glands, and he greedily fed on the white stream which 
slipped down her thighs.

Charlie might have forgotten everything but for the whistle of the 
speaking tube, and the admonition from his employer, Maudie, that the time 
had come for the beginning of the seance.

“Get your little lot of kids together, dear,” he whispered. “May’ll look 
after you all, but I’m relying a lot on you. We’re going to take ‘em in 
batches.”

*

They were to begin with the boys, and Charlie, somewhat foolishly from 
the really erotic standpoint, had produced his bonne bouche first.

The drawn curtain presented a young Sicilian, possibly about fifteen, and
almost matured. He was very beautiful, in a girlish way, as far as his face
was concerned, for his figure was that of an athlete, upright as a dart. 
His black hair curled crispy over his temples; his eyes were very large and
passionate; his lips like a cleft rose.

He was quite naked, save for sandals and a cloth round his loins. A hum 
of appreciation went round the spectators.

No word was spoken, but a concealed band was heard playing soft, dreamy 
music.

Tubby came forward with his little tray of razors, and bowed, first to 
the audience, then to Charlie, and then to the boy. Charlie removed the 
cloth, and it was seen at once that Tubby had a fine subject to work on.

The boy’s tool, semi-erect, was surrounded by a forest of luxuriantly 
curling “bush.” It seemed a shame to cleave the “love-mane” from the young 
Narcissus—but yet, is not the human forms, male or female, more perfect in 
its entire nudity of hirsute growth? (I think so, my readers, and so did 
the “clean-shave” devotees of Rosedale house.) There was a chair, similar 
to that in the London studio, and gently Charlie placed the boy, who was 
half laughing, half shyly blushing, in position.

Tubby, looking ridiculously modem in his lounge suit, faultlessly cut, 
beside this young naked god, stepped up and laid his hand on the quivering 
penis.

Instantly it shot into life. The poet bit his thumb; lustful glances 
filled the eyes of the women.

Quickly Tubby lathered the rolling curls with some soap which drifted a 
delicious aroma into the nostrils of all. As he followed the action of the 
brush by a rub of his fingers, the boy’s eyes became dreamy, his phallus 
was stiffly erect—a mighty one for a young boy—and his arms hung listlessly
over the edges of the chair.

One of the girls, dressed in a black skin-tight maillot with red sleeves,
a female Mephisto en effet, handed Tubby a razor. Deftly the fat young man 
played round that staff of eager love. One curiously shaped instrument 
after another he called for, till the last curl had fallen.

He bowed in reply to the plaudits of the audience.

A little girl, one of the very smallest, not quite naked but very 
suggestively half dressed, came forth with a tray of unguents and powders. 
A little boy, fully dressed in Lord Fauntleroy style, held a basin. A third
girl, older and semi-matured, quite naked, gave a cut-glass bottle of 
scent.

Tubby, his work completed, stepped back, and Maudie, pouring the scent 
into the silver bowl of water till a dense but delicate aroma filled the 
room, softly sponged the remaining lather from the boy.

That done, she rubbed the virgin skin with an unguent, and followed with 
powder.

It was a pretty sight, a contrast again of the old world and the new—for 
Maudie was still in her light summer frock, just as the “River Girl” in 
excelsis, and this young Narcissus made a beautiful foil. But all the time 
his ramrod was stiffly rigid.

During these proceedings the poet had behaved in a very odd maimer. Being
conveniently distant from the General, he had ventured to hum one or two 
“little unconsidered trifles,” such as:

–- “See how the ruthless scythesman reaps His cruel harvest with 
relentless sweeps Of Sheffield steel. Oh! lovely youth. Oh! sweetly formed 
Apollo, Thy forest falls to Rogers’ best ground hollow.” –-

He paused. But when the final act of desecration had been performed, and 
Charlie had raised the lad, still soulful-eyed, still prick-erect, to his 
sandaled feet, the poet displayed his true nature.

Bounding to his feet, he rushed upon the boy and flung his arms round 
him, raining kisses on his lips.

Charlie was at first disposed to interfere, but Maudie restrained him.

“This is delightfully unexpected,” she said; “watch him.”

The poet had tom open the fly of his loose trousers, disclosing a rampant
rod. He pressed the boy, seemingly by no means unwilling, to his knee on 
the soft carpet, and knelt behind him, fondling his buttocks with both 
hands.

He was understood to say something about twin spheres, and then—well, 
we’ll take it in the way the poet felt himself.

He had always been a lover of the masculine form. Its contours and graces
appealed to him more than those of a woman, but he had little chance, owing
to the provoking laws of the country, of gratifying his tastes.

Here, in this perfect Agapemone, he felt that he could go the whole hog. 
The moment he felt the touch of the pretty boy’s flesh, he knew no more of 
the outside world, knew only that his whole desire was at his mercy.

The lustful tongue kisses, with which the boys had returned his, told him
he might go to all lengths.

He went.

He slowly kissed first one buttock and then the other, his nostrils 
entranced by the harmony of the scents and powders.

His lips sought the orifice between them, and he kissed it, slowly, 
lovingly—all the time his fingers were toying with the penis and testicles 
of his beautiful male mistress.

He was quite in the dark now; he saw no lights; he only felt, and the 
flesh under him was like velvet.

He knew that the boy was supporting himself on one elbow only, and he 
felt fingers stretched back for his own member.

Its head was in something now, something that had muscles to grip it 
tight and hold it, and to relax and accept it further, and hold it again… 
and… and, until all was in.

He was spending, madly spending, and he felt his own hands all slippery. 
The spend had been mutual.

He awoke to lights, faces, subdued music, a general round of chatter, 
laughter and applause.

The naked boy turned over to him and kissed him.

He got up, and, with as much bravado as he could muster, swaggered back 
among the spectators.

He passed the General, humming, “A wandering minstrel I, A thing of—”

“Wandering minstrel, my arse, sir,” thundered the General. “You’re a 
bugger, sir, a God-damned bugger, and you ought to have an umbrella stuck 
up your arse, and opened inside, sir. Isn’t a cunt good enough for you?”

Very brilliant limes focussed a large patch of the stage, and onto that 
were hurried the four latest virgins, “Jeannie’s little lot,” as Charlie 
announced, and prominent amongst them the red-haired flapper whose bush had
been spared because of its flamboyant beauty—“the burning bush,” as the 
poet had termed it.

After that little interlude, done because Charlie wanted Jeannie’s turn 
over so that she could help him, the boys were proceeded with.

None were so beautiful as the first Sicilian, but they were very pretty 
boys. No English, but a brace of young Highlanders whose parents had sold 
them for the Sassenach’s gold, and a red-headed Irish youngsters, rather on
the plump side, who thoroughly enjoyed the proceedings.

Each of the kids in their turn were quickly operated on, but the poet 
made no spring. It was an enthralling rather than erotic exhibition—that 
is, erotic from the lust-compelling point of view of the word. Minds, 
however sensual, were compelled more to a rapt admiration of the beauty of 
the naked human form than a passionate longing to do anything to it.

Charlie’s choices had been very admirable. North, south, east and west he
had gone; and were there to be no question whatever of immorality—in 
persona—there was opportunity, and enough, and more than enough, for the 
most eclectic photographic panoramas of the nude.

“Cunt,” soliloquized the poet, “may be a dream-hole love, but give me the
male anus—oh! the grip—and, oh! the touch of the fingers on the penis of 
your victim.”

With the little girls, Maudie—now no more the Maudie of the demure 
“summer girl” costume, but Maudie radiant in her glorious, flaunting 
nakedness, took up the razors.

She was quick, almost brutally quick, with them all, and as each child 
was clean-cunted, brushed her aside, till, as she rose from her task with a
pant, she had a flock of little naked loves giggling and blushing around 
her.

“Now,” said Maudie, as she stood up, triumphant, “we have decided not to 
have the sports till tomorrow; there is so much to arrange. In the 
meantime, remember, all of you, that this is absolutely Liberty Hall. You 
can do anything you like.”

The poet began to think.

A maid brought her a peignoir elaborately designed with flowers. She left
the great room with her graceful, lissome walk, followed by hungrily 
lustful eyes.

Tubby announced that he was going for a motor drive, and Charlie said he 
would go too. They collected Madame Rade and her niece and went.

The old General, when he heard the hum of the departing car, began to 
think. Even at his age, he was very lustful, and he did want Maudie. He was
safe now, with both her young men out of the way, and he knew her room He 
risked it, found the door unlocked, and walked straight in. He found Maudie
lying quite naked on the bed, the sun-rays glorifying the ivory whiteness 
of her flesh. He made a cheap excuse about “Wrong room, my mistake,” etc., 
and paused.

“Oh, don’t go, General,” said Maudie, pleasantly. “Stop and chat; I’m all
alone.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and caressed her naked knee. She stroked 
his cheek softly.

The General was a fine-looking old man. Many years of active service had 
given him a figure upright as a dart. His eyes were clear and bright, and 
in his trousers were thrilled a lusty cock.

“You must think this place a bit thick, General,” said Maudie.

“Madame,” answered the old soldier, “I have fought and fucked all over 
the world, and I have seen most things, though nothing to equal your 
beauty.”

Maudie was pleased. The General was old, but still he was a distinguished
man and a V.C. She had had pretty well every variety of young and 
middle-aged man, but this old hero, who had listened with the stricken 
prisoners of Cawnpore to the distant skirl of the coming pipers, was a 
novelty. She thought she’d like it, but she left it to him to ask.

He tarried. He sat closer to her, toyed with her shapely legs and 
beautifully moulded breasts, kissed her ears, her eyes, her lips, but still
was a little nervous to ask so much loveliness to give all of herself to 
him.

She made him tell her of his fucks and fights. How after dining with “the
Mate” at Constantinople during the Crimea, he had found a Turkish officer 
whose life he had saved in the trenches, and how, with an invalided French 
Zouave, they had been invited by the grateful Turk to see his harem, and do
what they damn pleased.

It appears they “damn pleased a lot,” and the old warrior described 
vivaciously.

“I was only a boy then, my dear girl,” he began, “and by God I loved the 
girls, bless ‘em. I believe I was the only English officer in the war able 
to get into a really swagger harem, but this chap, Ramuz Pacha, was so 
grateful that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“We went into a luxuriously got-up set of rooms, with about thirty women,
some mere children, lying about, reading, sewing or smoking, or playing 
with the little tots of children who pottered about the marble floors.

“Well, the Pacha bet Sous-Lieutenant D’Alberique and myself 100 English �
that we wouldn’t account for the lot of them between us.”

“And did you?”

“My God, my dear, we did, and I won another 25 off D’Alberique as a side �
bet. I was seven ahead. Oh, it was lovely. Those warm, smooth Eastern 
beauties, their breath smelling of strange spices, their lazy, languorous 
lust, and the delicate vice of their actions. Lord, they did know how to 
fuck. When Ramuz told ‘em I had saved his life they nearly ate me up. I 
never faltered. Between each fuck I jumped in the great bath in the middle 
of the big room. The water was warmed exactly right, perfumed, and 
strengthened with some pick-me-up mixture. The slaves brought us coffee, 
liqueurs, sweets and cigarettes, and it was one triumphant carnival of 
vice. I finished with a little girl who couldn’t have been more than 
thirteen, and if there had been any more I could have gone on.

“D’Alberique and myself lay back on couches and looked at the chorus of 
our victims, lovely, lustful-eyed Circassians, Greeks, Roumanians, 
Hertzgovinians and Turks—there were even two English girls. And after that,
my dear, when I went back to the hotel I found an English society lady on 
her way out to the Front to see her husband, and what a night I had with 
her. Yet, when I looked out of the window in the morning over the sparkling
waters of the Bosphorus I felt like a lion.”

Maudie was interested.

“Were you ever wounded, General?” she asked.

“Only once, Madame, but that badly; I have the scar still.”

“Oh, do show me.”

“It’s in rather an awkward place.”

“What odds; do I mind your seeing me naked? Come on. I’m sure it wasn’t 
behind.”

“Madame!”

The old soldier quickly took down his trousers, and there, just below his
balls, was a long, vicious-looking scar. Above it, his balls were swollen, 
and his cock stiff as an iron rod.

“How dreadful,” said Maudie. “And supposing it had been a little higher, 
why you might have lost this,” and she fingered his cock.

That did it. The General read assent in her eyes, and almost rent his 
clothes off.

He was a fine naked figure, upright as a dart, muscular and clear of 
skin, and he gripped Maudie in an embrace which she certainly did not 
expect from a man of seventy-odd.

Their bodies writhed in unison as Maudie gently put the General’s cock 
into her greedy little cunt. It was big and the entrance was difficult at 
first, and painful, but the pain was that pain which you and I, readers of 
both sexes, know to be the perfect poetry of pain.

“Oh! Oh! General,” Maudie gasped.

“My dear girl,” said the old soldier, “in one part of South Africa where 
I was quartered, the maidens were sewn up, damme, just before they were 
married, and if the man couldn’t get it, he was considered no man.

The struggle was over, the pass passed, and the General was right in, his
grey hairs thrust on Maudie’s clean-shaved Mound of Venus.

Maudie took it as a “dream fuck,” possibly the very best form of fuck 
there is. With tightly closed eyes she imagined the old man who held her in
his impassioned embrace, whose finger strokes made her back boil with 
pleasure, and whose prick seemed to be drawing every atom of strength out 
of her, as a young soldier of early Victorian days, fucking this tearful 
girl on the eve of the departure for the Crimea. She imagined him bearded, 
begrimed, and half-frozen in the trenches. She could see him carrying the 
wounded Turk to safety under the fire of the Russian guns. She thought of 
the harem episode, thought too of the honours of the mutiny, of the 
triumphal return and of the pinning of the V.C. on his breast by the great 
Queen. Cabul, Burma, Egypt, Majuba, they all rushed like the pictures of a 
cinematograph across her brain.

In fact she fucked herself through fifty odd years of history—and as the 
rumble of the returning car warned them, they woke out of their lust dream 
and spent in unison.

“Dress quick, you old darling,” whispered Maudie. “Tubby mustn’t know.”

He was into his clothes with the speed of the practised old campaigner, 
and met Tubby at the end of the passage with Madame Rade.

“Rippin’ drive,” said the fat young man, “took Madame Rade’s kid too. 
She’s goin’ to arrange about sports now, ta ta.”

Maudie had sponged herself, but was still naked when the two came into 
her room. She made Tubby be lady’s maid, massage her a little, find her 
clothes and put her into them.

Then she gave him her keys, and asked for all her jewels.

It was a large order, for Maudie had not made love for nixes all her 
young life.

Tray after tray, Tubby lifted them out of the great jewel chest. Every 
variety of precious stone glinted there, and Maudie got all on she could, 
bar the tiaras. Somehow her unexpected act of lust with the veteran of 
Mars, and the cloud visions of the gorgeous and gory scenes she had 
pictured, made her want to show off, to be extravagantly overdressed. She 
would be Ninon de l’Enclos—in ultra-modem clothes.

The result was very dazzling, and as Tubby clicked the last hook and 
stood up to look, he gasped.

So did Madame Rade.

“Cherie,” she said, “you look like a modiste’s and jeweler’s window 
combined, turned into a rainbow.”

Maudie did not answer. She was in the thralls of the full sensual capture
of jewels. As she looked in the glass at her fingers, her arms, her 
breasts, her waist, her throat, she read stories of love and lust, of 
battle and minder, of every unrestrained crime committed for the sake of a 
woman’s kiss.

With a click of her tongue she rang down the curtain on her dreams. 
“Now,” she said, “for the great handicap race for little Toinette. I think 
I have got it right. It’s a hundred yards.

“Charlie, of course, is scratch. Phil I’ve given 5 yards, he’s a bit of 
an athlete, the poet has long enough legs and I think 8 is a fair mark; 
Tuberino mio, you get 15; and old General Fitzhugh must have 35. He’ll 
hardly last. Now, thee’s old Rosenberg, an immensely wealthy Yid 
stockbroker who’s coming down tonight. He takes 15 also, and Sandy McPhail,
the Paisley shawl merchant, is a 10 pin man. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

Tubby rather grudgingly assented. He had set his heart on winning this 
race. He coveted little Toinette, and he meant to prove his manhood by 
taking her maidenhead properly.

“It’s going to be 250 apiece,” Maudie added. “You may as well whack up �
now, Tubby.”

Tubby wrote a cheque. “But,” he said, “Charlie may not—”

“That’s all right,” Maudie interrupted, “I owe him a bit for a job he’s 
going to do for me. That’ll be 1750 in all.” �

Madame Rade heaved a happy smile. 1750—well she didn’t care who broke �
that little wisp of skin which guarded Toinette’s womb.

Tubby went, and she stayed with Maudie to smoke and chat.

CHAPTER EIGHT - TOINETTE’S TRAIL

Charlie, strolling from his room, came upon Mile. Rade standing at the 
door of a bedroom a few yards further down the corridor.

He had scarcely even spoken to the fascinating French child before the 
motor ride, but he had noted her delicate airs and graces.

“Tanta has gone to Miss Maudie,” she volunteered. “Everybody’s gone out; 
I’m supposed to stay here learning lessons. I feel so lonely.”

Charlie suggested that he might keep her company.

“Oh, do,” she answered, “come in here; it’s a bedroom, but it doesn’t 
matter. I’m only a child.”

Charlie was nothing loath: child or no child, she was pretty as a little 
bit of Dresden china—and he longed for a kiss, just a tiny playful toying 
with the kid’s lips.

He followed her in.

Mile. Rade—dear, sweet, diminutive Toinette, had not her hair now in 
plaits, but fluffed out over her forehead and luxuriantly flowing over the 
shoulders.

She was still very short-frocked, her skirts well above her knee. She was
not high-booted as we first met her, but the daintiest little shoes gave 
every chance for effective display to her ankles.

She curled up on the bed, and Charlie, a little nervously, sat down 
beside her, and, a little more nervously, kissed her ear. He got a sweet, 
thrilling kiss back, right on the lips, and without further hesitation drew
her over his lap and ran his hand up her legs.

She let his hand go right to its goal, then slid her fingers after it.

“Listen, you great big darling,” she said, “you must do just as I tell 
you. Understand, I am little and young, but I mustn’t have it all—just yet.
Tanta says I may do everything except exactly it—that is fuck—it makes me 
blush to say it”—it really made Charlie blush to hear it from those petite 
lips—“and… well… play with me as much as you like—oh, do; I love it so; I 
know I shall be terrible when I grow older and tanta lets me.”

She slid from his lap, and lay with her legs wide open. Her eyes 
glittered as they twinkled invitingly into his.

“Get all naked, dear,” she said, and ran her fingers over his fly 
buttons.

He did, and lay by the child’s side—she was still fully dressed. His cock
was very stiff, and when her tongue touched its end, and her fingers toyed 
with his balls, he knew that she could taste a drop of semen. She could 
hardly get her mouth over the whole glans—Charlie was very largely made—but
she licked ecstatically.

Charlie had a curious sensation of child love; he felt he wanted this 
dainty little darling always, and an almost overmastering lust to disregard
her request and rape her came over him. Little by little he undressed her, 
while she still sucked him, and he had the greatest difficulty to keep from
spending. She had just managed to get all the tip in now.

Charlie couldn’t bear it any more. Gently he pushed the little darling’s 
head from his cock, and lustfully he grasped her to him, smothering her 
throbbing lips with kisses. As her tiny, red-hot tongue darted in and out 
of his mouth, he felt a thrill of lust all over him which he never recalled
having before. Then he took what little clothing was left from her, and 
buried his head between her legs. It was delicious, divine. His tongue must
have touched her maidenhead, for she shuddered a little with pain, and he 
felt her fingers clutch on his head.

The child lay back, her eyes closed, in an ecstasy of lust. She too had a
mad longing to be really properly fucked, to have this great, strong, 
handsome young man clasp her to him with all his strength, and thrust that 
throbbing tool of his up, right up, no matter how it hurt. The tongue was 
lovely, but oh! the thought of the other, the real thing. But she wouldn’t 
disobey her aunt. She knew that her maidenhead was for sale; she knew too 
that it would probably fall to the lot of some horrid, rich old man who 
would pay a fabulous price for it and oh! wouldn’t she be untrue to him 
after ward! But the first she did want with a man she was in love with. She
wavered a little—heaven knows what might have happened, for Charlie, his 
lips all wet with the sweet moisture flowing from those red-hot cunt lips, 
was almost mad with lust, had there not been an interruption.

Both were so wholly carried away with the lust tremors which gripped them
from head to toe, that they had lost consciousness of all else.

Charlie, when he felt a smack on his bottom, thought at first it was 
Toinette—but still, there were both her hands on his head. She couldn’t 
have three hands.

A voice brought him back to life.

“So Mister Charlie, it is so you play with my little niece. It is so, 
missie, that you would learn your lesson. Fie, fie!”

Charlie got up—and did feel a fool. Stark naked, with a rampant 
cockstand, he stood in the presence of this ultra-Parisian lady, who, to 
his immense relief, seemed to view the situation as a little humourous.

Little naked Toinette sat up, feebly giggling.

Madame Rade was plump, but she was very pretty. In her stage days in 
Paris she had been a very noted beauty. Even now, tho’ she was nearer forty
than thirty, she was a tasty dish.

“Well, ma petite,” she said, “have you enjoyed your lesson from Monsieur 
Charlie?”

“It was divine, tanta,” answered the child, now unabashed and smiling.

“An apt teacher, bein?”

Charlie was blushing all over, but regaining his composure, now he saw 
that he was not blamed.

“One thing, Mister Charlie, I must ask you,” continued Madame “you have 
not deflowered la petite?”

“On my word, no, Madame; your niece said you didn’t mind her going just 
as far as that, but no further. Perhaps it’s as well you did come in, I was
madly randy, and I don’t know what might have happened.”

“Poor boy,” she said, and she laid her jewelled hand on his great stiff 
cock. “Poor boy, would you like it satisfied? I’m not a little girl now, 
but there are worse, n’est ce pas?”

“Oh do, Charlie,” said the child. “Oh do fuck tanta. I have read a great 
deal, and I have seen pictures, but I have never seen it really done. Oh 
tanta, darling, do it quick.”

“Well,” said Madame Rade, “veux tu?”

Charlie did not speak, but the kiss that Madame Rade got made her sting 
with lust.

“Do you know, you dear, delightful bad boy, that I haven’t done it for 
six whole months? Now, ma mignonne: this is going to be your lesson. 
Undress me, Charlie darling.”

She wore a pretty shimmery summer frock of forest green, with red roses 
in her belt, and more roses beneath the great drooping brim of her hat. The
skirt was short and fully displayed her very dainty ankle and tiny foot—how
often plump women have such deliciously tiny feet and hands, and what an 
especial charm lies in them.

She was dressed to correspond right through. The rose and the forest leaf
dominated everything, but there were two shades in each colour; the soft 
rose of love, and the scarlet of passion. A gilded thread tied her chemise 
and her drawers—the note of avarice.

It was the woman’s nature in a dress poem.

She stood at last naked, save her scarlet stockings the upward not in the
confection—plump, piquante, ravishing.

The child lay on the bed, wide-eyed, intently curious.

What was to follow, Charlie thought, ought to be done in a deep forest 
glade. Satyrs ought to be there, grinning their lust, nymphs idly 
wandering, cupids half ashamed, the great god Pan himself, and Orpheus with
his lute, and, and—but it was only a bedroom in an ultramodern riverside 
house, and he still felt the vibration of the motor wheel in his fingers, 
and motors and mythology don’t quite synchronize.

The bed was roomy, and there was space for little Toinette to lie at the 
side while Charlie lifted plump pimpante Madame Rade onto the soft 
mattress.

They were both nervous. Charlie felt that he was expected to give lessons
to the doll-like divinity by his side; Madame felt the same. Before the 
eyes of this child critic, both were abashed.

The end was rather vulgar.

Charlie felt a warm hand delicately placing his phallus in its home—and 
then his brain walked down his spine to his balls. He became an engine; 
even his unceasingly kissing lips were engines. Madame Rade was the same, 
and the couple spent simultaneously just as ‘Arry and ‘Arriet might have 
done behind a bush on Hampstead Heath.

Madame, as Charlie slid from her, turned to her niece.

“Eh bien, ma mie?”

“J’ai vue des chiens en rade,” was the simple reply.

Charlie got back to his own room with thoughts about the philosophy of 
Onan.

CHAPTER NINE - THE GAME AND VALE

Charlie, wakening a little heavy-eyed, sought solace in the bathing pool.
Maudie was there before him, and—well—he couldn’t help it; he satisfied his
lust on the greenward ‘midst the song of the breeze and the birds in the 
boughs.

When he came back to his room, he found Jeannie there, prettily posed on 
the edge of the bed.

Charlie kissed her, and felt her, and pressed his face languorously 
against her soft, hot cheeks, but beyond that he dared not go. He had 
fucked Maudie by the waterside, and it had been lovely—Maudie improved 
every time, and took more out of him every time, but what this day might 
bring about, and what might be expected of him he could only conjecture. He
knew it would be pretty hot, and he felt he must keep fit.

Little Jeannie shuddered convulsively in his arms, and finally openly 
begged him to fuck her. He had only been in his shirt when he came in, and 
she lifted it right up to his breasts, looking lovingly and longingly at 
his cock.

“Darling, darling,” she implored, “do, do fuck me. I shall be ill, 
horribly ill, if you won’t. I know you’ve been at it already, but can’t you
spare just a little bit for me, just a very quick one?”

“Dear little girl,” answered the perplexed Charlie, wanting it, and yet 
not wanting to want it, “I have been at it, and I want you again, you know 
I do”—it was obvious, his cock was gun-barrel stiff—“but I shall kill 
myself if I go on like this.”

She dropped on her knees before him and snatched a kiss on the glands. 
That settled Charlie. It had to be.

“Very well, you little devil,” he said, “I give in, but it’s got to be a 
very wicked one. Run quick, and fetch Luigi.”

Luigi came, rather wondering-eyed, and very picturesque in the Sicilian 
peasant’s costume which he always wore now. Charlie banged the door and 
locked it; this was to be entirely a seance a trois.

His eyes gleamed in a way which rather frightened little Jeannie, and as 
he took a birch made of dried seaweed from a cupboard, she began to be 
scared.

“You’ve got to go through it,” he said, roughly “Luigi, undress her and 
beat her.”

It did seem a shame, when that ravishing body was all naked, that scarlet
lines must be traced across the pretty brown skin, but Charlie felt like 
that. He was half genuinely angry that the girl should have tempted him, 
and half lustfully cruel. It was going to be sadism and blunt brutal wish 
to punish combined.

“You, too, Luigi, get yourself stark.”

The boy obeyed.

They made a handsome couple, and Charlie’s lust was for a moment overcome
by his artistic sense.

He took a hand camera, found a position for it on the top of the commode 
stand, and posed the two. It was difficult to avoid showing the boy’s very 
rigid cockstand, but clever draping did this. Running a plain grey screen 
behind them, they were naked shepherd and shepherdess to the life, and the 
shutter clicked.

His artistic thoughts had tamed his lust for the moment; his member was 
no longer rampant, and he was thinking more of breakfast than fucking till 
the timid bending of the pretty girl over the bed, her bottom raised 
shiveringly expectant of the stroke, fired him again.

“Give her five, Luigi, quick,” he cried.

The boy, savage-eyed also now, flicked the stinging twigs with a sharp 
wrist twist over the girl’s flesh. Twice, twice, he struck, and at the 
fourth the blood came.

“That’ll do,” cried Charlie; “come here, Luigi, and suck me.”

Poor Jeannie stared aghast—was she to have nothing, then? This was sadism
with a vengeance, and Charlie revelled in it as he saw the girl’s pitiful 
eyes, while he felt the warm embrace of the boy’s lips on his penis.

He spent very quickly, but he hardly felt any actual sensual pleasure. 
His delight was in watching the girl’s pain. Her skin must be smarting 
badly now, he knew, from the after-sting of the blows, but more than that, 
what must she be suffering from the lust she had, and the sight of it being
robbed from her by another?

“Keep it in,” he ordered, and he filled the boy’s mouth with the hot 
juice, “close your teeth on it. Now, Jeannie, kiss him, and drink my love 
juice from him.”

The girl did. She kissed the handsome boy with a long, tenacious kiss, 
and she sucked all the sperm from his mouth, her eyes longingly and 
expectantly fixed on Charlie all the time.

Finished, she threw back her head with a jerk and gulped it.

“There,” she cried, “my health to you.”

“Well, you’ve had what you wanted, my spunk in you. You can’t say I 
haven’t given you my fluid of life. Now you can dress yourself and go. 
Luigi, stop here and shave me.”

There was an evil glint in the girl’s eyes, but she said no word and 
dressed hastily. Charlie did not even turn his head to look at her as she 
left the room.

Outside she cursed him deeply and bitterly and long. What should be her 
revenge she could not quite decide.

The sports were to be early. They didn’t want any unexpected visitors 
from town, and the company was strictly limited to the people we have met 
already—with one exception.

A strange young man with an engaging manner managed somehow to get into 
the grounds and recalled himself to Tubby as an old school friend. Tubby 
had only a hazy recollection, but the man was so nice and seemed such a 
sport, and seemed to know so many people Tubby knew, and Tubby was 
flustered, so he hadn’t the heart to turn him out.

Maudie’s lawn, as we have before met it, ran down to the river and was 
fairly visible to passing water traffic, but there was a portion, a long 
green alley between great trees, which was completely shut off from any 
possibility of observation. It was admirably suited for the great race.

First came a pretty flapper race. The little ones had to run 50 yards, 
undress fully and race back. It was won very easily by the Titian-haired 
child whose Venusberg had been preserved intact. She led at the turn; her 
clothes came off her like a split cloud, and she raced back laughing, her 
red locks floating behind her.

There was a bicycle handicap for the boys and the flappers, all nude—it 
is surprising how vicious a naked little girl looks on the saddle of a 
bicycle—and a match between May and Elsie. They had to run 25 yards, jack 
off the two men servants—a judge was present to see it properly done—and 
run back. Elsie won easily.

Then came the event: the contest for the flower of Toinette.

It was nicely stage-managed.

In a great china bowl full of heavy scented dried rose petals sat 
Toinette, fully dressed, in a dead black costume, relieved only by a silver
belt, silver garters below the knees, and a silver collar. In her hand she 
held a laurel wreath. Her hair was straightly and severely brushed, and for
ornament she wore only a silver butterfly, streaked with creme de menthe 
green.

Quite close to her was the young man who had introduced himself as 
Tubby’s friend. He had a camera in his hand.

100 yards away the runners waited. All, even the General, wore proper 
running clothes—a hasty motor expedition to Windsor had secured those.

From the start the General made the pace hot. He had put half a bottle of
Martell Three Star down him, and reckoned that would just carry him 
through. Tubby panted in his rear; the poet galloped rather than ran; the 
two strangers were quickly outclassed, and Phil and Charlie were closing 
with their leaders.

With 10 yards to go, Tubby had the General beat, but he could almost feel
Charlie’s breath on his shoulders. A superhuman effort flung him across the
tape, a bare foot ahead of Charlie, the General beating Phil for place 
money by inches.

Tubby’s friend clicked his camera shutter once more, grinned, and went.

Outside the gates he met a friend with a low-hung racing car.

“Well?” said the friend, as the photographer climbed in.

“First stop, Carmelite House, and you can put the Agapemone scoop inside 
this.”

*

Whilst the General was being violently ill among the trees, Tubby carried
his little black and silver trophy, all vibrant with emotion—she had prayed
for Charlie’s victory—back to the pavilion.

There was a throne for her there, a black velvet dais, and there she sat 
while Maudie presented her with 1750 in a plain oaken casket, with the �
name Toinette set in opals fringed with diamonds.

It was up to Tubby. He had “doped” himself before the race, and helped 
himself very considerably to Martell and Mumm afterward.

Toinette was his. After the ceremony of healthdrinking, she slipped her 
little black-gloved hand through his arm and smiled up at him. He waggled 
as he walked back to the house with her. She made no pause, but led him 
straight to her bedroom.

Tubby walked rather sheepishly and vacuously to the window. He heard the 
child click the key in the lock.

She turned on him with a radiant smile; she was sorrowful at heart that 
it had not been Charlie, but at any rate she was going to get rid of this 
tiresome maidenhead at last. She supposed it would hurt, but she was no 
coward, and she knew that ever afterward it would be nice.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me? I’m all yours for the present, you know.”

Tubby kissed her rather awkwardly. He wasn’t much used to vice with such 
a young girl, and this very up-to-date, chic little Parisian flapper rather
scared him. Also, he was a little drunk, and he was painfully conscious 
that it was odds on his being impotent.

However, he was as gallant as possible. He played with the little 
darling’s still-stockinged legs, long silk stockings which came very near 
to the place of joy itself; he fingered her cunt, and he put his head up 
her clothes and kissed it before he started to undress her. He tried all he
knew to get randy, but he couldn’t.

He would have given pounds to have been downstairs in a comfortable 
smoking room chair with a brandy and soda.

She was all bubbling with lust, and shook with anticipation as he 
undressed. The naked beauty of the child as she lay back eager-eyed on the 
bed should have roused any man to a state of frenzied lust, but Tubby’s 
cock, when he took off his trousers and revealed it, was a pitiable object,
and Toinette stared in horrified amazement.

Blushing and ashamed, Tubby sank on the bed beside his victim designate, 
and tried by kissing and embracing to stimulate some passion. With the deft
aid of the child’s fingers something in the nature of a cockstand appeared.
Little Toinette gave every help: smoothed his head, his limbs, darted her 
hot tongue in his mouth, and eventually the end of his cock was guided into
a hot, juicy little cunt.

Once in, Tubby felt a flicker of sensuality, but soon realized it was 
hopeless and resorted to strategy. Attempting some vigorous strokes which 
didn’t get his flaccid battering ram near the expectant gate, he crushed 
the little darling in his arms and made believe that he had come, and she 
was deflowered.

Toinette had her doubts. There had been no pain, and where was the 
expected blood?

Tubby elaborately sponged her, and told her what she thought, was a lie, 
but which was really the truth—that she was the first virgin he had ever 
been into. Then he made a cheap excuse to go, and fled to solace himself in
drink.

He was greeted with rounds of applause by the other contestants. He told 
a few lies about his prowess, and got rapidly drunk.

Little Toinette, vaguely disappointed, dressed and wandered out to the 
garden, where she found Charlie alone, reading Candide.

He was delighted to see her, and they strolled down to the bathing place.

She told Charlie she didn’t think much of being seduced.

“However, it may be better next time, and I can have anyone now.”

It was a direct invitation, and Charlie made no bones about it. Like 
lightning he stripped himself and the child, and the two naked bodies 
rolled in ecstasy on the soft mattresses.

Charlie’s cock was so stiff that it was almost in pain. They didn’t waste
time on preliminaries. Her eyes wild, almost savage with passion, she 
guided it in, and Charlie gave a great thrust.

“Oh, oh!” she shrieked. “You are killing me; it’s awful; it wasn’t like 
this with Tubby.”

Charlie took no notice. He thrust brutally on, till at last he felt that 
the obstacle had vanished. Toinette’s maidenhead was fairly and squarely 
broken.

She had borne the pain bravely, but her eyes were streaming with tears as
Charlie withdrew a penis dripping with blood.

“Why, the damned fool never seduced you at all,” he cried. “I have been 
the first, the very first, my little darling.”

He wiped the blood from her tom little cunt—she had bled freely—and got 
her champagne.

*

Arriving back, they found the house in turmoil. Servants rushed hither 
and thither, the old General fussed and fumed, Maudie was hysterical, and 
Tubby collapsed.

“Whatever’s the matter?” cried Charlie.

“Matter, good God, man,” answered young Phil Neville, “that young 
stranger at the sports was a Daily Mirror reporter and photographer. I was 
motoring up to town and found him broken down. He didn’t recognize me in my
goggles, and I overheard his talk to his pal. He’s got photos of 
everything, and what’s worse, he knows what we were racing for, and he 
means to publish it.”

“There’s only one way out,” said Maudie tearfully.

“Luckily, I’ve always been prepared. The yacht is in full commission; 
I’ve just telephoned to Southampton to get steam up. The motors are all 
ready, and we’ve got to bundle into ‘em and be off. A few months’ cruise 
for the benefit of our health won’t do us any harm. The motors’ll carry all
the baggage we want, and there are plenty of spare clothes on board.”

It was a hurried flit. The great cars tore down the pleasant road to 
Southhampton to find Tubby’s magnificent steam yacht, the Lesbia, with 
steam full up, everything ready. By dinner time they were well out at sea.

The stockbroker could not possibly leave England, and Maudie had arranged
for him to go to Land’s End and pick them up on the wireless as to the news
in the papers.

At four o’clock on the following day the message came through.

It was worse than expected.

Both the Daily Mail and Mirror had full accounts, only hinting, of 
course, at the naked flapper events, but hinting strongly that there had 
been scenes of unmentionable depravity.

But, the race was described in full detail, and the fact that the prize 
was a child’s virtue was severely commented on. Both articles ended with an
impassioned appeal to the powers that be and the British public to rise up 
and destroy this hell, this monstrousity, this blot upon England.

“The Mirror,” ran the message, “has got two pages of photos, and states 
that they have others too indecent to print, but which they will gladly 
supply for purposes of prosecution.”

There was a general chorus of groans.

“I should like to see those photos,” said Charlie.

“So should I,” said Tubby.

“Well,” said Maudie, “we’ll risk it. We’ll hang off the Land’s End, and 
Phil can zip into Penzance this evening in the motor launch and get the 
papers.

Phil returned that night with a sheaf of papers.

“I kept my goggles on,” he said, “and my collar up, as I thought my face 
might be in the pictures, and by God, it is. I’ve bought all I could. Lord,
there is a rush for ‘em. I popped into one or two bars, still keeping my 
goggles on, and the place is ringing with it, probably all England is now. 
The general opinion is that burning is too good for us.”

The papers were eagerly scanned; it was awful. The Mirror had four photos
of the big race, an especially good one of the finish, in which the faces 
of all the runners were distinct, and an excellent one of Tubby leading off
his little prize. There was a picture of the house, “Hell Castle,” as the 
writer dubbed it; snapshots of Maudie, Madame Rade, and several other 
single ones. The groups taken before the race began included nearly 
everyone.

They had no names, but at the bottom of the page was an appeal to the 
public to come forward and identify the characters.

“Lord, Lord,” gasped the General, “this means a long cruise for us.”

“We’re very heavily victualled,” said Maudie. “I vote we make for the 
islands.”

And Pacific bound it was. But before they had made the Horn, one dark 
night a large vessel overhauled them and signalled them to stop.

“Full steam ahead,” said Charlie, “we’ve got the heels of anything but a 
destroyer.”

But the strange vessel seemed to steam two to their one, and the message 
came, “Stop or we sink you.”

A moment later a shell screamed overhead, followed by two more placed 
neatly to port and starboard.

After a hurried council they gave up. The strange vessel came close 
alongside, and dropped a launch. In a few moments several elegant young men
and a little girl dressed as a middy were on deck.

“What does this mean?” spluttered Tubby.

“Piracy, my dear sir, piracy, simple, unabashed piracy. Why, it’s Tubby. 
Well, Tubby, we can’t even spare our friends in this business. Fork out.”

Charlie came forward.

“Look here, St. Ed—”

“No names, please,” snapped the young man.

“Well, I don’t know what your game is, but look here, old chap, we’re 
fugitives from justice too, and if you collar all we’ve got, God knows 
what’ll happen to us.”

The young man was interested.

“Tell me,” he said.

For answer, Charlie took him into the chart room and showed him the 
papers.

The young man was deeply interested.

“That alters the circumstances altogether,” he said, “and it’s a dashed 
good job for you you ran against me. I’ve got an island no one in the world
but ourselves knows of, we can do with some more genial inhabitants. It’s 
obvious you can’t go back to England, so you come with me. I’ll send you a 
couple of steersmen on board to give you your course. You pop over and have
dinner with me, and we’ll talk things over. You know who I am, and why I 
left England. We’re all in the same boat over there, all gentlemen. You’ll 
have a good time.”

Well, it was arranged, to the immense relief of the passengers of the 
Lesbia, and the two yachts set off in company, southward bound.

And now, sweet readers, if you want to know any more about Maudie and her
friends, you must look for the forthcoming second volume of Pleasure Bound.

Au revoir.


FINIS
