The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Charles De Vane The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Table of Contents The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane..........................................................................................1 Charles De Vane......................................................................................................................................1 CHAPTER ONE......................................................................................................................................1 CHAPTER TWO.....................................................................................................................................8 CHAPTER THREE...............................................................................................................................12 CHAPTER FOUR..................................................................................................................................16 CHAPTER FIVE...................................................................................................................................22 CHAPTER SIX......................................................................................................................................29 CHAPTER SEVEN...............................................................................................................................34 CHAPTER EIGHT................................................................................................................................40 CHAPTER NINE...................................................................................................................................45 CHAPTER TEN....................................................................................................................................51 CHAPTER ELEVEN.............................................................................................................................58 CHAPTER TWELVE............................................................................................................................68 CHAPTER THIRTEEN.........................................................................................................................76 CHAPTER FOURTEEN.......................................................................................................................81 CHAPTER FIFTEEN............................................................................................................................85 i The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Charles De Vane This page copyright © 2004 Olympia Press. http://www.olympiapress.com • CHAPTER ONE • CHAPTER TWO • CHAPTER THREE • CHAPTER FOUR • CHAPTER FIVE • CHAPTER SIX • CHAPTER SEVEN • CHAPTER EIGHT • CHAPTER NINE • CHAPTER TEN • CHAPTER ELEVEN • CHAPTER TWELVE • CHAPTER THIRTEEN • CHAPTER FOURTEEN • CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER ONE An invitation to the reader—A harem of bare beauty— Pleasures and pains WOULD you change places with me? I might regard it as a favour if you agreed—at least while Jack Tremaine is away attending to matters of business. Left to myself, the sole guardian of three or four dozen beautiful young women, there are times when the demands made upon me are almost too much. The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 1 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Come, now. Won't you sit here in my chair—here in this comfortable lamplit room after dinner? The upholstery is wine−coloured buttoned leather of the first quality. There, on the small table at your side, is a cut−glass decanter of old Scotch. Do you prefer hock−and−seltzer or some other poison? You have only to ring and it will be brought for you at once by one of our delectable waitresses. By the way, if you care for an after−dinner cigar, I think you will find that the Flor Rothschilds in the cedarwood box are quite excellent. The house is best seen by daylight, of course. But just look through the curtains now and see the Moorish courtyard outside. You admire the keyhole arches and the fountain splashing the marble in the lamplight? So do I. Alas, at night you get no idea of the extensive gardens separating us from the road. The road itself runs to the port, ten miles away, and a dark blue North African sea. No one interferes with our pleasures here. In this land a man may buy and enjoy as many slave girls as he can afford. Our young women belong as absolutely to Jack and I—by the law of the land!—as the house and its gardens. We may love and caress them, cherish or chastise them, just as seems fit to us. We are, you may say, a pair of the most respectable fellows here! Before I tell you how all this came about, let me repeat my invitation to you. Put yourself in my place, just for a moment. What will you do first? Naturally you wish to know and see something of the slave girls whom you now own. Their ages range from fourteen to more than thirty, each an example of provocative sexuality at her time of life”. There are Arabian and Persian girls, of course. There are also girls from England and from India. We are, you see, well supplied. In my experience, a man who has such pleasures opened to him generally begins by wanting to be the teacher of girls who are still on the threshold of love. Forgive me if I am wrong, but may I assume this to be the case with you? Very well, you have only to sound the bell. It will be answered this evening by Jennifer Khan, a tawny−skinned beauty, perhaps a little stocky. The sheen of black hair is combed back, worn loose in a pretty tangle between her shoulder blades. There is a smouldering passion in her almond eyes. She wears a white breast halter and a pair of white cotton briefs, elastic tight, perhaps a shade small for her slightly heavy hips. Remember, of course, that she is at your disposal as well. Give your command and Jennifer Khan's knickers come down, discarded as she steps out of them. She will sit on your knee and feed you grapes from the bowl. Taking them in her own mouth first, she pops them with her tongue, removes the pips, and then pushes the fruit into your mouth in an open−lipped kiss. As she perches there, let your hands run over the deep gold smoothness of Jennifer Khan's bottom−cheeks, her taut thighs, the warm moss that grows between them. At nineteen years old the girl is well trained. Give the word and she will kneel before you, her lips forming a perfect O while she takes your penis into her mouth. As her tongue rims your knob−head and foreskin, her lips drawing on the shaft, you may choose this as a preliminary or else require her to suck and consume your passion. Do you prefer that the Asian girl should lie on her back on the divan, knees hugged up and legs parted for you? No sooner said than done. You can scarcely hope that she will rouse herself in front of you, though you can give orders that she shall learn to. Ring the bell again and there appears Massoumeh, a lightly plump, saffron−skinned Persian wife with a henna'd crop of hair and sly dark eyes. Watch now as Massoumeh kneels before Miss Khan's proffered vagina−pouch and kiss−teases it to restlessness. The randy young Persian's knickers join the Indian girl's. When you are ready, a couple of sharp smacks on Massoumeh's bottom dismisses her. Now the Indian girl is passionately and devouringly prepared as you mount her. The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 2 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Or does the other way attract you? As she turns her back, your eyes will observe the proud olive−skinned cheeks of Jennifer Khan's bottom. There are some things a man thinks of but, under the usual circumstances of life, puts far from him. Here all that is changed. Your desire becomes a command. By the way, that heavy music stool with its velvet top will make a capital rest if you want her kneeling forward on all fours. At your word, she kneels over it, her lynx eyes smouldering still with challenge as you part her hind−cheeks firmly and probe. However unusual the procedure, the exquisite tightness of her rear muscle as you bugger Jennifer Khan provokes unrivalled ecstasies. After so much, you can go even further, for here you are master. Call for the two Arab boys and they will strap her down in that kneeling position over the stool. If your admiration for her behind leads you in this direction, the choice of weapons is yours: leather paddle, cane, birch, even a snakeskin pony lash. The discipline will be as playful or as pitiless as you choose. I see. It is to be the pony lash which leaves its smarting prints upon the full tawny cheeks of Jennifer Khan's backside. All this is conjecture. Suppose you summon her merely to give your orders for other girls. Make your wants known and they will be attended to. Round this well−furnished room there are several ultimate apartments. In the drawer beside you, you will find a key which opens the doors leading into them. Each of those charming boudoirs—and its still more charming occupant—will offer you whatever pleasure you choose. By all means bring your glass and cigar as the first door is opened. You will agree, I think, that the girl who stands before the triple mirror is a true beauty. Judith is sixteen years old, lately a schoolgirl in England. If you feared that our harem would be stocked only with foreign ladies of decayed appearance, you may put your misgivings at rest. Observe her. See how tall and demure she is in her short plum−coloured corset, cut high above the hips, and her lilac silk stockings, to which the suspenders are attached. Do you admire that veil of light brown hair sweeping from her high crown to her shoulders? How appealingly it frames the pale oval of her face, the perfectly regular features and wide hazel eyes. I need hardly draw your attention to those elegant young legs, so long and slim, or the narrow loins delicately mossed with soft, light brown hair. As she turns, notice the pale oval cheeks of Judith's bottom. The most beautiful nymph in mythology never boasted a more alluring seat! I know I may safely leave her with you. Yet I wonder what your choice will be and what demands you will make upon her? Demure and bashful though she appears, you may have whatever you like. How you would be envied by those who secretly admired her a few months ago in her school blouse and short skirt, the neat black stockings drawn tightly up to her knees! Do you decide that Judith shall sit bare−hipped on her heels in front of your chair? Perhaps you prefer that she would lift her hips and kneel on all fours. In that way the mirror offers you Judith's bottom and the rear opening of her thighs while she sucks you. Because is rather young and inexperienced, Judith shows an appealing timidity as she bows her face and takes the warm mouthful of your cock between her lips. Be gentle with her, stroking that silky veil of brown hair as it spills on your thighs. If this is to be your sole pleasure with her, you may murmur your instructions. Command her to tease out the ecstasy as long as she can, her slim fingers holding your balls lightly and caressingly, her tongue exploring your knob with innocent curiosity. You will, I imagine, wish for her ultimate submission in which, as your passion spurts, she swallows her own pride and your proofs of love at the same time. Or is this to be only a preliminary in which you prepare for the greater ecstasy of Judith's warm, satin−smooth cunt? Perhaps, then, you should let her sit astride your thighs facing you when that moment comes. She would never admit it for the world, but when she thinks she is unobserved, Judith is in the habit of playing with The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 3 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane herself from time to time. Since you find her this evening without her knickers on, she was probably about to indulge in such solitary amusements. That being so, you will find her well prepared for you. There are advantages in the posture. As she straddles your thighs, riding on your erection by raising and lowering her hips rhythmically, her body is so easily available to you. Her lips are yours, her breasts with their firm little nipples are at fingers' reach. Judith will probably turn her face aside and look down at the floor as she rides, letting the veil of her hair conceal her bashfulness and enjoyment. Yet both your hands are free to turn her young eyes towards you again so that you may enjoy the sight of her ecstasies. Or, if you prefer, you may explore her bottom as she rides you. What more suitable than a lubricated cigar tube for gently entering Judith's behind? But perhaps she is not to be your choice after all. Or perhaps you are a Hercules who can exhaust Judith's possibilities and still hunger for more. Well then, open the next door and you will find a complete contrast. Fifteen−year−old Elaine Cox is a shouting, striding tomboy defiantly tossing the lank fair hair worn loose upon her shoulders. The broad oval of her face with its narrow eyes and thin mouth completes a picture of snub−nosed insolence. A very different challenge? Certainly. Not a great beauty, not every man's choice? Of course not. Look at her white blouse and uniform tie, the grey pleated skirt worn brazenly short to bare her robust adolescent thighs. If Elaine should be your choice, I have little doubt of the outcome. That heavy stool with the padded top is probably the most convenient piece of furniture. You will find the necessary straps and attachments in the cupboard. I have no doubt that Elaine Cox's knickers, as well as her skirt, will be removed before you secure her on all fours over the stool. Also in the cupboard you will find a long triple−switched birch−rod, several bamboo canes, and a cord whip. Once again—I apologise for the repetition but it may be necessary—the choice is yours. You must decide the instrument and the number of strokes, whether they are all to be given on the buttocks or some on the backs of her thighs. As you consider this, study the full pale cheeks of Elaine Cox's fifteen−year−old bottom. See how defiantly she tosses back her lank fair hair and cranes round at you. You might almost think she was asking for discipline—and you would not be far wrong. Please do not misunderstand me. I would not for the world offend you by insinuating that to have a bare−bottomed tomboy like Elaine Cox strapped over the block for discipline must be your idea of bliss. I merely mention the possibility. If the idea should appeal to you, then you have something in common with millions of other men and even a few women. These worthy disciplinarians would spend only a few minutes examining Elaine's sturdy young backside. They would then pronounce her fit to undergo the maximum penalty allowed by any prison or reformatory. They assure me it is the challenge which stimulates them. To teach Elaine “a lesson in manners” is their aim. See her now, they say, an insolent and defiant young hoyden. Also notice her sturdy young bottom so well presented. Imagine the satisfaction and excitement in seeing her impudence changed to a tragic mask of brimming eyes, howling mouth, and desperate repentance. Shall we pass on? Presently, if you are kind enough to be entertained by my modest reminiscences, you shall see all the girls you could wish for, in as many situations as you could imagine. Judith and Elaine will be among them. For the moment, let this third visit be our last. Open the door of the boudoir with your private key and see the young woman over whom you have absolute command. Look at her! Judith and Elaine were appealing morsels but here we have a dish for a grown man's appetite. Lesley, as she stands before you, has that slight but firm erotic maturity which marks the difference between a mere girl and an adult beauty. The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 4 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane How shall I describe her? At twenty−eight years old, Lesley is an educated and emancipated young woman with an almost arrogant self−possession. Her very appearance hints at a perverse challenge. Perhaps it is the way her straight fair hair is cut short in an urchin−crop and shaped to her head with a long parted fringe like a little boy's? Or is it the aloofness in her blue eyes and the firm fair−skinned features? Or, again, the slight sulky weight of mouth and jaw? Whatever the secret, that expression of independence and disdain must rouse a man's thoughts of conquest! Lesley proved to be a promiscuous young wife, I may tell you in confidence. The weekly exercise of the marriage bed, a few minutes of a husband's stiffness, could never hold her in thrall. So she deserted her marriage and infants for a lover, and that lover for the next. Enough of moralising! Observe her figure, if you will. Designed to harden any man's resolve, is it not? She has been taking her dancing exercises and, happily, you catch her wearing nothing but a short white singlet and sheer honey−toned tights. Do they not show off her figure superbly? I know you will approve of that slight extra sheen of pale flesh which gives the firmness of maturity to a girl without fattening her. How long and trim those thighs are! Like the cropped hair shaping her high crown, they have a perversely boyish suggestion. You will agree, though, that the firm, marginal broadening of her hips makes her more feminine now than when she was a bride of twenty. See how the translucent tights mould her trim thighs and the slight proud curve of her belly. The tight transparent silk presses her fair pubic hair so closely that it seems like pretty sea fern glimpsed under water. Now she turns. Ah, I believe you covet that rear view no less! Her marriage and infants do not concern us— yet see how child rearing has imparted a slight but proud firming−out to the cheeks of Lesley's bottom. Look! She stoops to ease off a shoe. Study her twenty−eight−year−old backside. Firmly broadened and tautly rounded, its cheeks would rival the seat of a Spartan soldier girl! May I speak frankly? Lesley is your real test, not Judith or Elaine. A man does not need to be Casanova to seduce or discipline girls of their age. Yet if you can win Lesley, then I may leave my girls in your care with every confidence. Of course, she is yours to command. But will that ensure your conquest? You have right of entry between her legs—and I do not doubt that your majestic stiffness would tickle the depths of her womb. Your passion would jet pulse after pulse of hot, molten love into Lesley's warm grotto. How you would flood her! And yet ... and yet? Even in that moment of rapture might she not greet your love with cool disdain? It has happened before! Will you prove vindictive then? Must she now be bent tightly forward over a tall stool, strapped down, naked from waist to ankles? Would you command punishment with a snakeskin lash across the firmly broadened cheeks of Lesley's backside? May I advise you? The whip is a sterile pleasure. You will draw cries, make Lesley scream for her husband, lovers, children, the purple lash−tracery embroidering her seat and legs. But is this the victory you seek? Ah, I thought not! What a sensible fellow you are, to be sure! The most sophisticated young ladies remain children at heart. I congratulate you, then, on deciding that an arrogant young woman like Lesley is best treated as a little girl in need of firm upbringing. You will put her back to school to learn a new art of love? How very wise! The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 5 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane I believe I see you have placed her face down upon the divan, a pillow wedged under her loins to raise and broaden the seat of her tights. Their honey−toned gloss mistily reveals the full pale moons of Lesley's bottom and the shadowy forbidden valley between. You take the waistband of the tights, peeling them down. Pale hip−flesh rises free a little as taut elastic draws clear. Gentle but firm, you press her buttocks apart, examining the dark closed bud of Sodom's flower. She is no virgin in the usual sense, so there are obvious advantages in this choice. You adjust the mirror, thus able to observe her face as you love. The blue eyes are wider now, her sulky lips parted a little. She is in two minds about what lies ahead. Her lewd curiosity about such deviations, which all young married women share, is overlaid by tearfulness of ruin—injury as the price of pleasure. But you are expert, I know. Be resolute— make the decision for her. Your fingers explore her womb and Lesley's backside. You will tolerate no reticence. Her buttocks tense together—you part them firmly. A well−aimed smack or two on Lesley's bottom−cheeks reminds her that she is the pupil and you the instructor. Her tight rear−dimple shrinks at your finger's touch. It is a young woman's instinctive sense of her vulnerability in that place. You reassure her and reprimand her gently at the same time. “I see you have still one of love's arts to learn, Lesley! This divan shall be your schoolroom. Even a young wife must submit to being a child again under her lover's tuition!” Sitting on the side of the divan, you circle her waist with your left arm and gaze down at the firm pale cheeks of Lesley's bottom. From the box beside you comes the largest of its rubber dildoes. You stroke the fringe of her short−trimmed hair and study the alarm in her fair−skinned features. Your circling arm feels her desperate restlessness as she watches you lubricate the rubber muzzle. “Please!” It is the tiny imploring voice of a little girl who can no longer afford to sulk. “Please be gentle with me!” The dark rear−dimple tightens instinctively at the knob's touch. “Don't tense against it, Lesley,” you murmur. “You need this to get you in the mood. Offer yourself more fully. That's better!” Accepting the inevitable, she covers her face with her hands and arches the pale swell of her seat towards you. There is a moment's strain, a sudden intake of feminine breath, and a slippery whisper. Lesley's dark bud closes over the knob. You press gently, requiring her to take the full length, stretching and lubricating deeply. “Not all of it! Not so far!” The muffled voice is still that of the little girl rather then the arrogant young woman, but its tone is wondering instead of fearful. With long steady strokes you exercise Lesley's bum as the minutes pass. Five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . How long will it be? Only you can judge. A young woman like Lesley will respond sooner or later to anything which resembles the shape of a man inside her. At last, without any instruction from you, her hips and hind−cheeks begin to stir, to match the rhythm. Having pleasureably roused her, you withdraw the dildo. She must lie for a while with the lingering sensations as a tantalising reminder of what delights await you both. Kneeling astride, you present a bone−stiff erection to her postern gate. You press resolutely. With a tightness like a band of elastic going over your swelling you are deeply engulfed. She draws a sharp breath as you touch the soft depths. Kiss the crown of her urchin−crop and see the sulks in her face replaced by amazement and timidity. Lesley is aware that her last defence has gone and that she must accept as much love as you choose to release into her secret depths. The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 6 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane A young woman's instinct—or a hint from another bride—makes her squeeze and milk your tool by contractions of her arse. Your prick works vigorously in this exquisite tightness. Sometimes you pause, stilling her with your hands, drawing out your pleasure. “Ready for it now, Lesley?” you murmur at last. Your shaft is destended, balls full and tight. “No danger of having a baby in your derriere! Lie there and enjoy feeling a man's sperm flooding you!” You work your knob to the depths of Lesley's bottom and shoot a jet or two of love's hot gruel to prepare her. She gasps and tightens. You kiss the neck and shoulders of this boyishly cropped young wife. She licks your fingers which are across her mouth. Your loins hammer her buttocks faster as you spend in her rear. “Ah, Lesley, darling!” you cry. “Feel it coming, my love? Keep your face to the mirror, Lesley! Let roe watch you as you get it! Yes! You like to feel a man coming inside you, don't you, my pet?” At last you draw out, with a dying snail−trail of passion over the pallor of Lesley's proud young bottom−moons. What a good little girl she is now! A most affectionate pupil! She asks to retire to the bathroom, moving with great caution to contain your copious tribute. You consent? Or does your hand restrain hers, your eyes directing her gaze to your renewed stiffness. “No! Don't pull your tights up just yet, Lelsey! Lie forward even more fully over the pillows! Wait while we repeat the love lesson!” Even at twenty−eight years old, Lesley looks a little frightened (though excited) at being needed again so soon, and in this state. You are outraged by my suggestion? You would never treat Lesley in so freakish a manner? Never perform such acts with a girl? Say no more! You are clearly a man of honour. I accept your word. My bargain is to describe possibilities. The choice is yours. Who am I? Forgive me. In my enthusiasm—or was it yours?—we omitted introductions. Captain Charles De Vane, at your service. My name is unlikely to interest you. Yet you will find it in the register of Harrow School and on the books of Trinity College, Oxford. Alas, you will not find that I gained a degree from that estimable place of learning. Scan the Army List and there you will also find me. Captain, Royal Sussex Regiment, now on half−pay. For the matter of that, you might inquire at one or two clubs in St. James's Street or Pall Mall—Whites or the Marlborough. The porters will shake their heads when asked for Captain De Vane. “Gone away,” they will tell you, as if I were a fox eluding the hounds. The same words are inscribed on letters addressed to me before they are returned to the sender. How do I come to be in my present situation? Not every man finds himself master of three dozen naked beauties, each vying with the other to offer whatever avenue of pleasure he chooses! My story begins on that September evening when the regiment was still in camp at Aldershot after manoeuvres. The newspaper placards had been full of bold headlines for the past week. We knew that old Kruger had let loose his Boers in South Africa and that Joe Chamberlain was after him with a hot stick. Before I begin, come back to the lamplit room by the Moorish courtyard. Take your ease in one of the deep buttoned−leather chairs. Fill your glass again and choose a fresh weed from the box. If you have followed me thus far, I take it you are not a namby−pamby easily shocked by the ways of the world. What I must tell you now is not for such tender ears. The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane 7 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Well then, on the last night of peace before the great South African war, Jack Tremaine and I were to have a real beano at my old friend's rooms in the Albany where we chummed together. Jack had acquired a governess, Susan Ann, for his ward. Sue, as she called herself, was twenty−five years old. Twice she had lived with a man as his mistress and twice been cast off. The experience had made her hard and disdainful. Jack had wagered her fifty gold sovereigns that, if she would surrender herself to us that evening, we would reanimate the power of love in her. Yet, upon his honour as an officer and a gentleman, no man would lay a finger near her in the process. If we failed, she would get the fifty sovs. Should we succeed, she would get the fifty yellow−boys but must yield herself to one of us in forfeit. Come with me, in memory, to the Albany. Let us keep our first appointment with loyal Jack Tremaine and lovely Susan Ann. CHAPTER TWO The eve of the South African war—In bachelor quarters —Susan Ann in boots and tights—The thighs and bottom of a college−girl waitress—A lewd wager and a challenge—Miss Jolly, an almond−eyed devil—Her wicked tricks upon naked Sue! —Susan Ann in love at last—Her delicious forfeit IT was dark by the time that Jack and I got up to Town that evening, dark and foggy. We had been staying at Jack's house in the country where the days were still mild enough. Yet the night air of London seemed raw and dank as a whore's kiss. Street lamps shone like blurred haloes up Regent Street and down the Haymarket. Every pavement was crowded with doxies and swells asking one another the latest news of war in Natal. I daresay Jack and I were the only two fellows in London just then with our minds on other things. Why not? For a soldier there will always be a war. If not this one, then another. Once the guns begin to shoot, it don't signify much to a chap whether he's being potted at in Natal or on the Northwest Frontier. We cabbed it from Waterloo to Piccadilly to avoid the crush. The old porter at the Albany recognised Captain Tremaine and tipped his hat as if we were the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York come to dine with the Guards. Jack slipped him a half sov to ensure that we were not disturbed. A few minutes later we were sitting in Jack's rooms. The gasolier burned bright, the fire crackled, the plush and velvet of gilt furniture was soft and inviting as the bubbies of a prima donna. When you walk down Piccadilly with time to spare, glance up at the fine old facade of the Albany and think of our capers there. Yet that night, what with the fog and distance, hooves and harness in the street sounded so muffled that straw might have been laid from Waterloo Place to Hyde Park Gate. So we lounged in our easy chairs for a while with old pale sherry in our glasses—and we chaffed one another about the fun we should have that night. It was part of Sue's duty to wait upon us first during dinner. Upon the table the fine cloth of white−linen had already been set with Waterford crystal and with silver which bore the Tremaine family crest. My only doubt was how Susan Ann had gained admission at that time of night, for the porters regard the Albany as a strict bachelor establishment. We finished our second glasses, and then Jack heaved himself from his chair. “Time for our victuals, Charlie,” he said, chuckling like a schoolboy. “The sooner we've had a good tuck−in, the sooner we shall see Sue's cold indifference melted into something like a hot passion!” “Dashed if I see how that can be, Jack, if neither of us is to touch her,” said I. “It ain't in reason.” CHAPTER TWO 8 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “So you think,” he said, still laughing. “Yet I promise you, old fellow, when midnight comes, Susan Ann will be lying bare on that table and she won't want to pull her drawers up again for the next week.” Still chaffing one another over this, we sat down and Jack rang the bell for our waitress. Presently there was a tap at the fine white door with its gold inlay. When it opened, I stared in astonishment and absolute delight. Let me describe Miss Susan Ann to you. There was indeed a hardness in her potentially pretty face. The fair−skinned features were well cut but her mouth was set tight, her light blue eyes rather narrow, and her chin a little shallow. There was a hint of pretty freckling round her nose. I could imagine her laughing easily and behaving quite skittishly among her girlfriends, but towards men she showed a chill of bitterness. Her tresses of medium brown hair just overlay her collar, a style that suited her, and were shaped quite close to her head with a short, parted fringe. What caused my quiet gasp of delight and a tightening in the front of my trousers was the sight of Sue's figure tantalisingly displayed. She was an averagely tall girl with firm, well−kept curves, which by the age of twenty−five had nonetheless a proud young maturity. Perhaps it was to smuggle herself past the porters that she now wore a short blue jacket with brown leather boots to her knees, and skintight denim riding trousers! I doubt if it was simply a disguise. In her bitterness to the male sex I suspect that Sue derived satisfaction from showing men the delights which they would never be permitted to enjoy. Even the most aged Albany porter would scarcely have mistaken her figure for that of a stable boy from the cavalry! As she served the meal, my attention was drawn to the superbly delineated shape of her body from the waist down. So much so that I cannot remember a single one of the succulent dishes we devoured or even one of the fine old clarets which accompanied them. The blue denim of the riding trousers fitted her like tights, creasing across the backs of her knees and upper thighs with the tension. She had long firm thighs whose upward and outward branching was perfectly outlined by the tight denim. As she approached with platter or decanter my eyes followed the bow of her trim legs, then dwelt upon the taut triangle of cloth leading down to Susan Ann's love−nest, which had caused so many problems. As she turned, at my elbow, and reached across the table, I could scarcely keep my hands off her. The denim was drawn splittingly tight across the proud cheeks of Sue's bottom. Like many girls at that time, she wore the protection of tight silken briefs under riding trousers to give extra insurance against saddle soreness. So taut was the denim that I clearly saw the elastic hem of the briefs outlined, arching up high and tight over each cheek of Susan Ann's backside. The meal was done at last. Coffee and brandy were brought, our cigars were lit. “Now then, Sue,” said Jack softly, “are you ready to put the wager to the test?” “If you like,” she said indifferently. It was the prim, cool voice of the high school and college girl. “Then take off your trousers and boots, Sue,” Jack said, “and your jacket. Wear just your briefs and your breast halter. Then lie on your back on the dinner table. You have my word that neither of us will touch you against your will.” Susan Ann obeyed. I would like to have taken her knickers down there and then, rogered her among the crockery, turned her over, smacked her arrogant young bottom long and hard, and done all manner of things to her. But a gentleman keeps his word. Soon, in tight glossy briefs and silk breast halter, she was lying on her back among the debris of our banquet. CHAPTER TWO 9 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Your hands through the cuffs, Sue,” Jack reminded her. Since we had given our word, it was agreed that Sue must allow her wrists to be strapped to the table frame on either side of her. She made no protest, as if she no longer cared what happened to her. When she was secured there, Jack got up and went to the door of his study. He opened it. This time I very nearly shouted with laughter, though I had half expected what would happen. Can you guess? The answer, in two words, was Miss Jolly, or Cara Jolly, or Car' as she was more familiarly known. You haven't met her before, of course. May I introduce you? Miss Jolly was a tight little wriggler of twenty−two or twenty−three summers. She had a neat figure, golden skin, and an almost Egyptian or Mediterranean beauty. The sharp nose, dark lynx−eyes, and tall forehead held a promise of passion and perversity. Her hair was cut short of her collar and brushed upwards in short dark curls. She had the neatest young breasts, a slim straight back, and narrow waist. She was, by the way, wearing tight silk knickers and blouse. The knickers encased her from waist to knees, showing slim thighs and hips without a pinch of excess fat. Yet the pale coppery cheers of Miss Jolly's bottom were perfectly and exquisitely rounded. Indeed, she emphasised their appeal by walking with a tight lascivious little swagger for the benefit of those behind her. This, then, was the hot, almond−eyed little beauty who was to restore the warmth of love to our frozen Susan Ann! Jack had kept his word. No man would lay a ringer upon Sue. Miss Jolly needed no instruction. She walked across to the table where her golden figure made a piquant contrast with Sue's fair−skinned body, now almost bare. There was a devilish gleam in Miss Jolly's slanting eyes as she lowered her head and fastened her mouth on Sue's in a vigorous kiss, trying to force the taste of her tongue into Sue's mouth. Sue resisted with tight lips and immobility. Then she tried to break away, twisting her body among the dinner debris. A coffee cup rattled and the slops splashed the back of her thigh, trickling down to gather behind her knee. Inadvertently she sat against a saucer, where her seat was not covered by the briefs. A large grey smudge of cigar ash blemished one proud young cheek of Sue's bottom! Miss Jolly stood back and pulled up the halter, clear of Sue's soft white breasts. She worried the tight pink nipples between finger and thumb. Despite herself, Sue's eyes closed and her lips parted slightly. Miss Jolly opened a little tin containing pale brown powder which smelt of hot spice. She took some on her tongue and watered it in her mouth. Then, still with her tongue, she washed over the first of Sue's nipples, adding a little more powder and settling down to a lick−flick, lick−flick mouthing of Susan Ann's tit−cherries. Sue gave a soft cry, mingling protest and longing. The tightness of her mouth was gone, her nipples were hard and erect, she was arching her torso up as if to offer them to Miss Jolly's urgent attention. Still she would not confess the wager lost. Very gently, the golden−skinned tormentress drew Susan Ann's knees up to her chin and secured them there by a strap round the lower thighs connecting with another round Sue's waist. Sue was still on her back but now in a squatting position. Miss Jolly went down to the other end of the table for an underview of her subject, the spread of thighs, cunt, and arse which a squatting girl presents to the ground. Jack and I moved our chairs slightly so that we too could concentrate upon this sight from a range of a mere few inches! The tight translucent silk of Sue's briefs showed the lightly mossed lips of her womb and the deeper cleft of her backside with its dark narrow entrance revealed by her spread posture. “Oh, no! No!” Sue implored as Miss Jolly's nimble fingers began gently and tantalisingly to stroke the furry vaginal lips through the thin tight silk. But the dark almond eyes were pitiless. Against the silk we heard the light whisper, whisper, whisper, as Miss Jolly stroked remorselessly, ending each caress with a gentle pressure CHAPTER TWO 10 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane on the clitoris. The remorseless rub−and−squeeze soon produced visible and audible results. Sue's protests grew quieter and gave way to gentle, wistful sighs. The wet of her pearly love−juice began to darken the silk of her pants. “You wicked girl, Susan Ann!” said Jack, playfully stem. “You can't resist temptation, can you?” She made no reply, only lifting her hips readily so that her briefs could be drawn well down her legs. She was warm with excitement, the love−juice and perspiration gathering. The musty girl−scent of passion reached us from between her thighs and bottom−cheeks. Miss Jolly opened the little tin of spice again, and despite herself, Sue cried out in alarm. But on her elbows with head lowered, Miss Jolly licked the hot stinging excitement into the wet cleft of Sue's nether lips. The last cold disdain had gone from Susan Ann by now. She was itching lewdly. Miss Jolly had only to put her slim agile hand there and Sue rode it like a saddle, rubbing herself from the tip of her clitoris all the way back to her bum! The wicked Eastern spice was so constituted that she was desperate to assuage its virulent titillation, and yet the more she rubbed the worse it teased her. There was no harm in the cunning spice, of course. Once washed off, its effects died away. Indeed, Sue had only to retire to the bathroom afterwards and water herself in order to be free of it. Its permanent and beneficial effect was upon her mind. Miss Jolly had not done with her yet. She took three small balls, the size of blackbirds' eggs, moistened them, and took them one by one into her mouth. Then, bowing her head, she slid them on her tongue high up into Sue's cunt. Gently she turned Sue on to her side. Even this movement produced a sudden gasp from the patient at the deep and thrilling arousal of the smooth little globes moving in such a sensitive place. Next Miss Jolly took the thin, empty tube of a corona−corona cigar, thick as a thumb and about eight inches long. With great care she lubricated Susan Ann's rear and slid the rounded end of the tube into the girl's behind. Sue gave a cry of alarm as she felt what was happening, but pleasure rather than harm was all that resulted. For a moment she lay there. The tight mouth was relaxed, the blue eyes wider and more appealing. Inside her lay the three magic eggs. The end of the cigar tube peeped out saucily between Susan Ann's bum−cheeks. Now Miss Jolly began in earnest. With one hand she manipulated Sue's sensitive cunt lips and clitoris. With the other she moved the cigar tube in a gentle in−and−out movement in Sue's bottom. The three little eggs were thus manipulated from both sides at once, jiggled by the masturbation between Sue's thighs and stirred by the rube in Sue's behind beyond a thin diaphragm of skin. Sue responded with wild, rising cries of joy. In a delirium she screamed the names of her lovers, as if calling them to witness her triumph. She cried out to have this one's prick in her mouth, a tool between her legs, and a third up her bottom. Miss Jolly pressed another kiss upon her, while continuing to masturbate Sue at the same time. Sue's mouth opened greedily, drawing in the almond−eyed girl's tongue, sharing the tastes of Miss Jolly's mouth in her own saliva. At last Sue reached the zenith of her ecstasy and the bubble of passion burst. Without a pause, Miss Jolly continued the masturbation and Sue was riding again towards love's reward for the second time. After three orgasms, Miss Jolly stopped, and Sue lay panting on her back. The wicked lynx−eyed bitch now gently blindfolded Susan Ann. When this was done, she took a velvet soft rubber penis which had been warmed to blood heat in water. Caressing Sue's cunt lightly, she presented the knob of the rubber dildo to the parted lips of the blindfolded girl. CHAPTER TWO 11 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Deceived by this, Susan Ann gave a sigh of relief, as if for something of which she had long deprived herself, and sucked as contentedly as a baby on a dummy. She groaned with the pleasure as a second diddler entered between her legs. Without a word of command she turned on her side, her proud pale bottom arched out, inviting a third intruder. The rubber prick up Sue's backside must have stretched her to the limit. Yet she had no wish to be spared even this ordeal. When the three rubber phalluses were presently withdrawn, we heard only Sue's imploring whimper for their return. Yet the time had come for comfort and reassurance. After so much care, we had to be certain that her return to the delights of love was not spoilt by later remorse or self−disgust. When she was released, Jack said gently, “Pull your pants up, Sue, and go into the bedroom.” She dressed quickly without looking at either of us or at Miss Jolly. Yet I sensed that Susan Ann was not ashamed. Rather, she was proud of herself for being a woman again. When she had gone, Jack turned to Miss Jolly. “Off with you, Car'! Into my room and wait for me there!” To me he said only, “Now, Charlie, old fellow, I make you the best gift a friend can offer. Susan Ann has lost her wager. And you shall enjoy the forfeit!” CHAPTER THREE Susan Ann's solo performance—My loving use of her —Her confession to me of past amours—I demand a second bout, to which she agrees readily—A strange interruption—My introduction to Jack's fourteen−year−old protegee, Jane I WAS grateful to Jack Tremaine, of course, but at the same time it was a deuced ticklish situation. Wouldn't you agree? Susan Ann was in a randy mood, no doubt, but she had only just been won back from the solitary dungeons of the demon Masturbation. A man who treated her wrong at this moment might send her back there for ever. How would you have dealt with the problem, I wonder? Believe me, I could have done with your advice at the time. Some fellows, I know, would have gone in and ploughed her good and hard. Some would have taken advantage of a girl in her randy state to make her suck them off or even to bugger Susan Ann. A few would have “cooled her lust” by bending her over and giving twenty or thirty with a bamboo cane across Sue's bottom! Now, I confess I am no saint. You won't find me at an uprighters' meat−tea. But I swear I meant to do my best for Sue now. And I think I did. Jack had followed Miss Jolly—with her lascivious little arse swagger—to Ms own room. I turned down the gas in the elegant dining room and made my way cautiously towards the other door. Without a sound I pushed it open. I had almost made my first mistake. By the streetlight I could just see the bed. Sue was lying on it on her side, her back towards me. Her riding trousers and brief knickers were pushed down to her knees, her short jacket pulled up. I could not see her face, only the brown tresses that just overlapped the back of her collar. The only visible movement was a rhythmic tensing and swelling of Susan Ann's arse−cheeks. Then the upper thigh was raised a little and I saw the frantic rub−rub−rub of her fingers between her legs. There are those who would have made a display of this, standing sardonically over her: “Play with yourself, Susan Ann! Show us how you like to do it!” I am not one of them. Quietly removing my dress trousers and other CHAPTER THREE 12 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane garments, I crossed softly to her. She froze as my hand descended on the arm whose hand was plaguing her cunt so remorselessly. Yet I turned her on her back, without a word, opened her legs wide and gently pressed my standing prick into the tight hot depths of her cunt. The balls which Miss Jolly had inserted had been removed and were by now playing another role in Jack's bedroom! Sue gave a hard hollow exclamation as the first real penis for many months entered her. “You do like it, don't you, Sue?” I whispered gently to reassure her. “You like it very much indeed, don't you?” “Yes,” she whispered in her rather prissy high school and college voice. “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Yes!” “Just lie with your hips still and feel it,” I said, beginning to ride her gently. “Have there been many men before?” “Four,” she gasped. “They all used you like this?” “Yes,” she said readily. “Did they teach you to suck the penis too?” “Only one of them. He was married and he knew about these things.” “Did you do it to him often?” “Only once,” she said quietly. “I thought it would make him love me more if I was prepared to suck him.” Such items are important. I gathered from her answers that she liked the penis in her mouth but that the married man had taken a most ungentlemanly advantage of the sweet girl. Her tight riding trousers and pants lay on the floor now and her heels rested gently on my back. I rode at her hard and she sighed softly and repeatedly. “Oh, yes, Charlie! Yes! Yes! YES!” It was the first time she had called me by name and I noticed it. At the same time I began to laugh as I fucked her, thinking how absurd it would have been in that situation to be addressed as Captain De Vane. She laughed too, in sheer happiness. “It's marvellous!” she cried. “It's so marvellous! I want to be fucked and fucked, and never stop!” “I'm sure they never taught you such words at college,” I gasped. “No,” says she, “but every girl knows them. Now I shall use them. For the first time! Fuck me, Charlie! Hard and harder! Fuck me in the cunt! Fuck me in the mouth! Fuck me in my bottom too, if you want to!” CHAPTER THREE 13 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Only if you want me to,” I panted, for now the work was growing warm. Our lips were glued, tongues caressing. The hairs of my chest had brushed her nipples to hard erection. My fingers were tickling her bum−cheeks. Suddenly she released a muffled scream of ecstasy into my mouth and the crisis was precipitated for both of us. From the knob of my penis the hot gruel of sperm jetted in long bursts into Sue's cunt. Indeed, it must have felt as powerful to her as to me—a rare thing, my medical friends tell me—for Sue had her second orgasm within seconds at the strength of the sensation of it squirting into her. Whatever the quack−doctors may say, I will take her word in the matter. We drew apart presently, but not for long. I lay on my back recovering, only to find that Sue was tongue−teasing my prick erect. Knowing its duty perfectly, it stiffened again. Yet the muscles of arms and thighs were not yet ready to resume the fray. (You see, I tell you the truth, my weaknesses included.) The effect of this tonguing, as well as looking down at Sue, her moody little face now wide and eager with the cock in her mouth, prepared me soon enough. Before I could move, it was she who swung a leg over her mount and lowered herself upon the phallic saddle! The prim tight lips were now parted lightly in her breathlessness. The blue eyes were narrowed again, and the brown hair lay parted in its fringe on her forehead, swept back over her ears and trimmed at the nape of her neck. She rode easily and gratefully, leaving me little employment. My hand roved upon her slender shoulder blades and found the light contours of her spine. Following these down, I came to the cleavage of Sue's bottom and fiddled between her bum−cheeks to excite her doubly. She drew my hand from there, in protest, as I thought. But it was only in order that she might lead that hand in a light smacking rhythm upon her behind. My frisky filly, Susan Ann, wanted the double pleasure of riding while at the same time feeling that there was a jockey upon her who spurred her on! Gently and rhythmically, I spanked Sue's bottom as she rode. The effect was such that I could feel her pearly droplets of love gathering and bedewing my prick more liberally as she drove it to the depths of her cunt. Perhaps she was overexcited, for her efforts to achieve a complete reward seemed unavailing. Here, then, I decided to resume the proper duty and position of a man. Without withdrawing, we turned upon the bed until Sue was on her back and I rogering her in the usual manner. I was just wondering what her pupils would say if they could see their prim yet lascivious teacher now, when Susan Ann gasped: “Jane Mitchener! You duty little girl! Go away at once!” Had she read my thoughts? Was this some game she was playing in her imagination in order to procure a final ecstasy. I froze motionless in my copulation as a sweet young voice behind me said, “Oh, please let me stay! Mayn't I stay and watch? Just this once!” What would you have done, I wonder? I turned my head a little, greatly apprehensive as a man must always be when caught in such a posture! There stood Jack's ward, whom he had adopted by means unknown to me and whom I had never seen before. Jane was an appealing girl of fourteen with straight brown hair cut just short of her shoulders. Her lively brown eyes illuminated a fair−skinned face with clear strong lines in nose and chin. The brown hair ended in a short, slanting fringe on her forehead. In her long skirt and blouse she gave the hint of having a firm young figure of resilience and elasticity, the contours of womanhood taking shape in her breasts and hips. “Go away!” gasped Sue for a second time. Had you been there, I am sure you would have agreed with me that there was no prurience, nothing but loving and innocent curiosity in Jane's expression. She knelt meekly beside the bed, the short brown fringe and rather timid eyes so sweetly appealing. She bowed her face and kissed one of Sue's hands where it clutched the side CHAPTER THREE 14 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane of the mattress. I had not the heart to dismiss her. Indeed, when I made a pretence of withdrawing to do so, it was Susan Ann who held me closer and pleaded, “Oh, no, Charlie! No!” In her present state, she could not bear to be bereft of the comfort of the prick in her cunt. Meanwhile, Jane folded her hands on the edge of the bed, rested her chin upon them, and turned her brown eyes beseechingly towards me. “You won't hurt Sue, will you?” she anxiously inquired. “No,” I said awkwardly, “I promise you she won't be hurt.” She raised herself a little on her knees and surveyed me with frank curiosity as I lay impaling her young governess. I started as two cool but inexpert fingers raised my scrotum. “Are these what boys always call their balls?” asked pretty Jane curiously. “Where all your love−seed is kept?” “Yes,” I said, knowing it best to tell her the truth. “Are they very full? Is that why they look so round and tight?” “That's how they should be, Jane. Full of love.” “Is Sue going to get it all pumped into her?” Jane murmured. “All of it, Jane.” “I say!” The strong white teeth rested on her lower lips in a grimace of nervousness on Sue's behalf. “Will you turn her over and fill Sue's bottom too, like Uncle Jack does with Miss Jolly?” The question was never answered, for Sue, unable to restrain her longing any further, had begun a slight impatient movement of her hips. Jane sat back on her heels and settled down to watch, her gaze following every detail of the lovemaking. Her eyes moved to each of us in turn, looking at me timidly and beseechingly on her governess's behalf and then regarding Sue with the gentle admiration of a loving pupil. She nestled her face against Susan Ann's long trim thigh and looked down at her. Of course, Jane had not yet been seduced by a man. There seemed no evidence of a lesbian relationship between her and Susan Ann. Yet the influence of a good−looking governess of twenty−five and a susceptible girl of fourteen would have made such love easy. Sue cried out that her orgasm was coming, almost as if the intensity of its gathering frightened her. Jane looked truly alarmed when she saw Sue's head thresh side to side upon the pillow, as if in the grip of a seizure. Sue's cries rose more shrilly and her heels drummed upon the small of my back as her legs scissored round me. My own teeth were set with the coming of a lust I could no longer restrain. I would not have cared then if Jane and a hundred more girls of fourteen had been watching us. I gripped the edges of Sue's hips like a maniac, forcing her to me. “Get your cunt right on the shaft, Sue! Deeper! Ready for it now, my love?” “Now, Charlie, now!” she cried. “Oh, my sweet love! Fill me!” CHAPTER THREE 15 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Smoothing out every little wrinkle inside her cunt, it seemed to me, my prick drove to her soft depths and the great gusts of love pulsed and shot deep into her womb. We lay there quite exhausted at last, though my cock still threaded her. Presently and gently we turned on our sides, remaining entwined. For the first time since our mutual spending I remembered Jane. She knelt there still, very quietly, and blinked away a tear from the corner of her eye. I was alarmed at first that she had been distressed by our crescendo of love. I need not have worried. It was a tear of relief for Sue, and for the happiness of us both. Only after we were both asleep did the charming child tiptoe away to her own room. Next morning at breakfast, Jack and I were in great spirits, as you may well imagine. Porridge, bacon and eggs, toasted muffins, devilled kidneys were all consumed with a hearty appetite after our night's activities. Susan Ann waited upon us, still in her tight knee boots, even tighter riding jeans, and short blue jacket. But in every other respect what a different Susan Ann she was! Those long trim thighs, branching outward to her hips, were now caressed through the tight jeans every time she passed me. I would ask her to reach me some plate or dish from the far side of the table. She would know beforehand that this was only in order to be presented with the full, tautly rounded cheeks of her seat as she did so. Sue's buttocks were superbly presented in the tight jeans trousers. Yet, while I fondled Susan Ann's arse−cheeks, I also worked between her legs till she dared not stay! At last we turned our thoughts to the coming war. Jack Tremaine must go to Sussex to put his estate in order. Sue, Miss Jolly, and young Jane would go with bun as part of his household. “I suppose, Charlie,” he said, “it's too much to expect you might drive down this morning and stop with us there until the regiment embarks?” It was just then that I had detained my new mistress bending over the table and was examining Susan Ann's seat of beauty. “I would go nowhere, old fellow,” said I, “unless where this young charmer is to go! I have unfinished business with Miss Sue!” Jack was delighted at my acceptance. “Well done, Charlie!” he chortled, slapping the table in his satisfaction. “So it shall be!” The wagonette was called for our luggage and we set off at midday for Waterloo Station. There a private dining−car had been reserved where the five of us would take lunch—accompanied by two bottles of Chateau Latour—as we travelled. By the middle of the warm sunlit afternoon, we should be put down at the little halt nearest to Jack's domain. I would regret it greatly if pressure of engagements should now prevent you from joining me in Sussex as a guest of Jack Tremaine. We hope to see you there in a little while. What can we offer you? The usual amenities of a gentleman's country house and, of course, the charming possibilities of Susan Ann, a lascivious governess; Miss Jolly, an almond−eyed little wriggler; and the innocent loving disposition of fourteen−year−old Jane. You find you are able to accept the invitation? We are delighted. Let us set out, then, for Sussex. CHAPTER FOUR The comforts of Jack Tremaine's country estate—An afternoon of English summer—A pretty young pupil in tight silk knickers —Susan Ann and I give Jane a lascivious lesson—Jane's harem slave−girl dance—A CHAPTER FOUR 16 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane smacking rhythm!—Indescribable randiness! I WONDER if, by chance, you know Jack Tremaine's place in Sussex? It nestles at the foot of the South Downs in an old world English village. You have only to walk up the flint path to the top of the downs and there before you lies a sunlit glimpse of white cliffs and distant blue sea. The express train does not usually halt at the little wayside station, except when Jack is travelling. Then a signal is given by the stationmaster and the stop is made. As the train pulls up and the smart green engine stands hissing and gasping before it pants into motion again, you make your way out beyond the palings and find that a carriage and a cart for the luggage have been sent down from the house. You pass first through the village, two−storey cottages with a limestone slab over each door bearing the letter “T”—the initial of Jack's family, who have owned the estate since the time of the Tudors. Honeysuckle and roses climb the mellow brick walls. There is the grey old Norman church with its tombs of the Tremaines, and the brightly painted little inn by the village green, the Tremaine Arms. On the smooth shaven grass of the village green, outside the windows of the Tremaine Arms, every Saturday is sacred to the sport of “King Willow.” The white clad figures stand in their appointed attitudes around the wicket, while the hollow tap of ball on bat is followed from time to time by clapping and a cry of “Well played, sir!” from the straw−hatted gentlemen who watch with their ladies in flower−print frocks and sun hats. Beyond the village lies half a mile of highway fringed by a broad riband of grass, which leads to the lodge gates of Tremaine Park. See how the lodgekeeper's wife stands by them and drops a curtsey as you pass through. Green foliaged woods of oak and beech lie either side of the drive, the sunlight in their leaves. Then there is short−cropped grass where the deer graze. At last you reach the velvet green of the lawn and the fine red−brick house built in the eighteenth−century style by Sir John Vanbrugh for Jack Tremaine's ancestor, Lord Augustus Tremaine. To one side you will see the stable block with a gold−figured clock on the cupola. Here, then, we passed the few remaining days before our regiment embarked. That September was a true Indian summer, the golden afternoons alive with the murmur of bees and the moan of doves in immemorial elms—as the poet has it! Excellent food and superb wines were in the tradition of the Tremaines, though a few of us knew how close poor Jack was to being sold up. He once confided to me that almost every stick and stone of the estate was mortgaged to his bankers. Once, in his cups, he swore he would spend like the devil to his last penny and then, with his trusty revolver, blow his brains out. May I assure you, without betraying my friend's confidence, that there was a far more happy outcome! At Tremaine Park, then, we found ourselves with our three charming girls. Much that happened you will readily guess! Yet I must detain you, if I may, with an account of the most remarkable afternoon's sport I ever knew. These events took place after a very congenial lunch with Jack and several of his acquaintances among the local squires. I was walking towards the library when young Jane approached me. “Would you like me to do my dance for you, Captain De Vane?” she asked softly. I was uncertain what she meant at first. Then she explained that Susan Ann, her governess, had been instructed by Jack to give her dancing lessons. He wanted Jane taught to perform an alluring harem−girl dance for the amusement of himself and his guests. There was to be such a lesson in half an hour—in the games room. Both Sue and Miss Jolly would be there to instruct her. CHAPTER FOUR 17 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane To please the youngster, I agreed to come, not imagining the half of what would happen. By that time the rest of the party had gone out into the gardens and the fine old house seemed sunlit and deserted. I made my way to the games room, which was a small gymnasium with polished boards, parallel bars, and a climbing rope hanging from a crossbeam. Sue wore her usual very tight trousers and boots. Miss Jolly was dressed in the same fashion, though without the boots, for both had been out on horseback that morning. There was no sign of their pupil, who was changing into her costume behind a screen. Miss Jolly, with her golden−skinned beauty and almond−eyed perversity, was with the girl as she dressed, for I could hear Car' say: “Where's the one you wore last time, then?” It was a high lilting voice with a rather singsong quality. Miss Jolly would draw out her monosyllables in a long “Noooo!” or “Aaaaah!” At last young Jane appeared before us. And what a sight she was! I had never doubted the appeal of her fair−skinned face with its firm features, the brown shoulder−length hair with its narrow fringe. What held my eyes now was her figure. She wore an imitated harem diadem, which sat in a helmet curve upon her head. Her pert young breasts were tightly cupped in a halter of green silk, secured by a band round her neck and another behind her back. Her young belly, taut and flat as a child's even now, was delightfully bare. From the waist to the knees she was encased in green silk knickers, which were both skintight and translucent. Would you not have been stirred by the prospect of having a lascivious dance performed before you by so alluring a pupil? My gaze was drawn to the tilt of her pert young nose, the almost coquettish upward angle of her firm chin. Her brown eyes watched me tauntingly, her fine young teeth resting lightly on her lower lip in a teasing manner. Her neat fair−skinned young breasts were just visible through the taut silk of her halter, their nipples prettily outlined. Her arms were bare, of course, and so was her flat pale belly and the small of her back. Her graceful young legs were uncovered to the knee, above which the tight pale green silk of her translucent pants sheathed her to the waist. Her slim thighs had begun to assume their womanly shape. Indeed, from the front it was also possible to see through the tight silk of her pants the soft pubic moss in the triangle of her loins. It was a lighter brown than the head of her hair. As she turned, showing the rear of the tight silk pants, a childish tautness and a feminine allure were mingled in the shape of Jane's agile young seat. The dancing lesson took the form of a game with rewards and penalties. Like any harem girl, Jane was to writhe her hips and belly to the music while her arms twined above her head. She was to squirm like a snake without moving her feet, standing on a mat about eighteen niches square. Miss Jolly had conceived an original device to train the girl in lascivious writhing of her hips. From the beam overhead hung two cords, one just in front of Jane and the other just behind her, so close that they almost touched her. At the end of each cord—the front one level with the opening of her legs, the rear one touching the fullest curve of her behind—a china ball had been threaded. They appeared to be balls used for pool or billiards, drilled through for this purpose. Jane must first squirm her thighs and hips to the time of Miss Jolly's tambourine, endeavouring to catch and hold the china ball in front of her between her legs— without using her hands, of course. Holding this pleasureable object between her thighs, she must then give all her attention to the ball behind her, rolling her young bottom in such a manner as to catch the second little globe between her cheeks. Her reward was to be a pretty Spanish fan which she had seen in a curio shop. She must continue her dance until both china balls were safely entrapped. Yet after quarter of an hour—if it took her so long—the penalties would begin. I had no idea what they might be, except that they were not severe enough to cause her any real alarm. As a final test, the two china balls were dipped into a bowl of soap solution, which Miss Jolly carried, in order to make them more elusive. CHAPTER FOUR 18 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Jane stood upon the mat, her arms raised, twining and embracing each other above her head in the manner of a dancing girl. Miss Jolly began to beat on the tambourine, slow and hard at first. Jane jutted her hips side to side as she imagined a harem girl would do. There was hardly a crease on her flat pale belly as she did this, so firm and smooth it was. The cold china ball ran across her stomach and she gave a shivery little laugh at its chill. Sue and I sat about six feet in front of her, watching, Jane shook the short slanting fringe of her brown hair clear, where it was tickling her. She opened her thighs a little and leant back slightly. The pretty little lips of her cunt and her neat clitoris were outlined by the tight silk of her pants. The china ball touched her there and she drew breath sharply. As she closed her thighs and the soapy china globe slipped out, she gave a little wail of disappointment. “Five minutes gone, Jane,” said Sue quietly. I was glad to hear this for I was curious to see her incur whatever playful penalties were imposed. Jane arched her sweet little belly button out towards us and writhed her silk−sheathed thighs together as she tried to coax the ball between them. When she opened her legs, the ball oscillated against her tight−clad vaginal lips. When she closed upon it, the soapy china surface slipped free again. As the ball dangled between and then escaped the tightening thighs, the girl writhed her legs together in a rhythm of touch−and−squeeze, touch−and−squeeze. . . . “Oh, I can't! I can't!” she wailed helplessly. “Seven minutes gone, Jane,” said Sue presently. At these words a devilish smile lit Miss Jolly's almond eyes and her sharp levantine features. Perhaps it was this which spurred Jane on. The china ball swung between her legs and came to rest against her inner thigh. With a gasp she managed to close the other leg upon it and this time to hold it fast. She dared not of course open her legs again while catching the second ball. Yet half her task was now accomplished. Sue and I moved round to watch her from the rear, Jane looking back over her shoulder. Her young bottom, visible through the tight green silk, was rounded out towards us with the most charming innocence. It was the cord of the first billiard ball which she held firmly between her thighs now, the ball itself peeping out of their rear opening. So Jane's smooth adolescent backside arched and writhed in its turn. Soon she was warned that eleven, and then twelve minutes had gone. She squirmed her rump from side to side but the second china ball would simply roll over one rear cheek and off into the air. The problem was that at her age Jane's adolescent bottom−cleft was not very deep, her buttocks not being as fully fleshed as they would be in her womanly maturity. She bent forward to open it wide, yet as she did so her stretched silk knickers presented a tight smooth surface and the ball ran off easily. “Thirteen minutes gone, Jane!” Miss Jolly picked up a canvas gymnastic shoe with a hard rubber heel. Jane was gasping from her efforts. A light sheen of perspiration gleamed on her belly and the small of her back. Suddenly the youngster took the little bowl of liquid soap. She looked down over her shoulder and slowly tipped the thick liquid over the seat of her pants, spreading it with her other hand. By doing this, Jane's wet knickers clung to her bottom and its crack like a second skin. The disadvantage was that they were now shining with a wet slipperiness to match the china ball itself! CHAPTER FOUR 19 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Does not this little incident show her bewitching innocence? It was done with such naturalness that one wanted to hug and kiss her for it. Can you imagine a woman of twenty−five or even a proud beauty of eighteen soaping the seat of the knickers she wore to amuse her lover? Jane looked adorably naughty when she had done it, her teeth set teasingly on her lower lip as she glanced back at us. The slippery wet silk of her pants clung in silhouette to the cheek−swellings of her young behind. Would you not like to catch her in such a state? To say with a smile, “You wicked, wicked girl, Jane!” Would you not take her to your room and, with gentle scolding, assist the changing of her knickers with your own hands? Now she danced with redoubled energy but the ball slipped easily away on the soapy silk. “Fourteen minutes gone, Jane!” There was but one remedy. Jane took the waist band of her pants and pulled them down, jiggling her legs free one by one. She was allowed to remove and replace the first china ball already trapped between her thighs. Prepared once more, she arched out her posterior in a lascivious yet wholly innocent tango. If I wax lyrical, I plead that this was my first sight of the firm pale resilience of pretty Jane's bare bottom. Her seat was no longer a child's though she lacked a woman's maturity and reserve. So there was a delicious and shame−free vulgarity in her arse movements. Jane rounded and rolled those hind−cheeks, which stern moralists would yearn to chastise and lechers would press apart for the tight entrance between them. The soapy ball rolled off her wet buttocks again. “Fifteen minutes, Jane!” Miss Jolly took her place. The first syllable of the gym−shoe heel spoke loudly on one cheek of Jane's backside. The penalty! This was the new rhythm of the dance. It was lightly done, though Jane gasped at the sting of it. Unlike a proud beauty of nineteen or twenty, she was a true sport who accepted the rules of the game. I will confess that my prick stiffened at the sight of Jane's bottom−cheeks being tanned by the gym−shoe heel, wielded by a trim golden−skinned beauty. Car' went to the chastisement eagerly. The hard smack of rubber sounded about every five seconds. A minute passed. Longer. Jane, in a desperate surge of her bottom, caught and held the cord between its bare cheeks. This time she slid her arse down the cord until the china ball itself was safely trapped. “Seventeen minutes!” said Sue. They all laughed and both young women embraced Jane affectionately. Then Sue and Miss Jolly remembered some business in the stable block. They went out, leaving me sitting on my chair with Jane before me. She now wore only her breast halter and diadem. “Did you like my dance?” she asked breathlessly. I assured her that I did. To my surprise, she put herself face down across my knee, trying at the same time to look down her back towards her seat. “Am I in an awful state behind?” She giggled at the thought. CHAPTER FOUR 20 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane The cheeks of her young bottom were strawberry red from the tanning. Because they had been soapy wet, the gym−shoe heel had marked them with muddy prints. Wet soap glistened between her buttocks and on a single sweet hair near Jane's anus. “Ow!” she said suddenly. “What was that?” “You have a hair growing in a place where young ladies ought not to have them.” I took my handkerchief and wiped her over until nothing remained but the perfume of the soap. “Did you like seeing Car' tan me?” Jane asked with her usual direct innocence. “Yes,” I said, knowing that a lie would not deceive her. “I was caned at school last year, when I was thirteen,” she said. “The headmaster made me bend over his desk with my bottom bare. He gave me twelve strokes, with matron standing there and holding the smelling salts.” She turned her young face to me, innocent and coquettish at the same time. “Would you have liked to see me caned then?” I looked down at the taut pale cheeks of Jane's bottom with their first shape of womanhood appearing. “Yes, I would, Jane,” I said quietly, “very much.” “I cried like anything,” she said, as if boasting, “and he left a stripe across my sit−upon with every stroke! Do men really like to watch that happening to a girl?” “I'm afraid most of them do, Jane.” The answer seemed to satisfy her for a moment. Then the incorrigible little imp said, “If you'd been my headmaster, perhaps I shouldn't have minded it so much.” I folded my silk handkerchief and very tenderly mopped the lather of her exertions from between her thighs. She tolerated this for a while with growing impatience, then slid from my lap and knelt before me. “You'd like to have seen me getting it at school,” she said firmly. “So you can't mind if I look at you!” I thought she was referring to my love with Susan Ann in the Albany. How wrong I was! Before I could protest she had unbuttoned me with great nimbleness and taken my member in her hand. She examined it curiously, then lightly kissed its knob. Small wonder that it grew stiff and sinewy in a trice! For a moment she played with it inexpertly—rather for her own satisfaction than for mine. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she slid her warm lips over it, enclosing it upon her moist and agile tongue. Storytellers often describe a fellow's brain as being “hi a whirl.” I promise you that mine was at that moment! With one part of my mind I was appalled at the outrageous act in which I was suddenly a partner. With the rest, I was aware of Jane's hands pulling me down to her. What you will think of me, I dare not ask, but presently I lay there on the floor with her. We were head to tail, she with the tool in her mouth, I with my head pillowed on her firm young thigh. With one of her legs drawn up a little, she presented me with a full−spread prospect of her thighs and backside. I stroked her lightly for some moments. At length I could not resist my confession. CHAPTER FOUR 21 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “I wish I'd been your headmaster, Jane,” I murmured, caressing her. “You'd have spent a long time in the study, being spanked with your knickers down.” She drew her mouth free for a moment. “I think that's mean!” she said with teasing reproach. “You'd have made me do this to you and then tanned me for it!” “Perhaps I would have done, Jane.” Her lips and tongue drew harder upon me. I kissed her sweet virgin pouch and tickled its depths with my tongue. This exercise muffled my words of passion to sighs and murmurs. Jane gave a questioning little moan without ceasing to suck. She followed this with a timid, trembling little cry at the intensity of feeling which began to overwhelm her. My own excitement was burgeoning now and I lipped or tongued every inch of the private anatomy she offered me. Her own tongue worked hard and irresistibly upon the vent of my prick until the lust spurted from me. As if to prove what a sophisticated young lady she had now become, Jane swallowed as though it were the elixir of life. We lay silent, except for our long−drawn breaths. The call of birds and the smell of mown grass came from the sunlit world outside. A warm scent of ancient timber and dressed stone filled the house. What was I to do. “Jane,” I said softly and at length, “you must forget what has happened. I was wrong to permit it. The proper time will come for you in a year or two. Promise me to be a good girl till then.” There was a long pause. She sat up and looked at me frankly. “I'll promise,” she said gently, “but only if you promise me something in return.” “What's that, Jane?” “That you won't love any other girl until Tm ready for you. You're my lover now, aren't you?” Then, without waiting for a reply, she skipped up and away behind the screen beyond my reach. I smiled, watching her in amusement and admiration. “We'll see, Jane,” I thought to myself. “We shall see.” CHAPTER FIVE A schoolboy's lust for Miss Jolly—Her devilish cruelty to him —The wheel of justice turns—Miss Jolly stung to the quick and rogered in a parlous state by a vulgar fellow! PERHAPS it takes you otherwise, but an unexpected randiness, such as I had just experienced with Jane, leaves me in a rather sober state of mind. The power and suddenness of my feelings had quite overcome my intentions—which always leaves a chap in a bit of a brown study, don't you think? I lit a cheroot and decided to take a turn as far down as the stable block. Perhaps I would join Sue and Car'. Perhaps I would stand at the gate and watch the cricket in the other field. Jack's estate joins the grounds of Dr. Butcher's public school where Britannia's future senators and men of battle are educated. Whatever other malpractices I may be guilty of, boys are not a temptation to me. I anticipated a quiet hour's cricket. I was not CHAPTER FIVE 22 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane to know that the adventures of that afternoon had scarcely begun! I walked down by the side path, exhaling tobacco fragrance among the scent of freshly mown hay from the late crop. Between Jack's fence of iron rails and the school hedge there was a narrow strip of ground like a long path. It was strictly out of bounds to the boys— who went there to smoke—and Dr. Butcher sent the farrier with a birch−rod to attend any young gentleman caught in that forbidden territory! As I turned past the stable block towards the cricket, I was brought up short by an extraordinary sight. I stopped and stood there without a sound, watching. I recognized the boy easily. He was called Henry, about fifteen or sixteen years old, quite tall with pale skin, fair curls, and a fresh complexion. He was standing right against Jack's fence, in the forbidden zone, face pressed to a stable window which looked on to the dividing strip of land. His mouth was open breathlessly, his eyes glazed, and he was masturbating visibly in his trouser pocket. What the devil was he watching in that harness room? I went to another window on the far side and peeped in. Miss Jolly and Sue had tidied up the harness room and were now mopping over the floor. It was Miss Jolly who was busy just then, on all fours in her riding jeans. Picture her if you will. Her head with its upswept crop of dark curls was lowered, just a glimpse of her golden features, the sharp nose and almond eyes. She worked energetically. Her slim back was held straight, her narrow waist hollowed downwards as she knelt. The effect of this was to make her bottom−cheeks strain the smooth pale blue denim jeans skintight over her tautly rounded and clearly parted globes. Imagine poor Henry, locked away in a monastic school for months! The abominable crime of Sodom, which most of our judges, rulers, and generals indulged in at such schools if the truth be known, appealed little to Henry. Here, instead, was a young woman so appealingly offered as to stiffen his cock uncontrollably after such a time. The two girls tried to ignore him. Sue took over the mopping of the floor on hands and knees. Henry now followed her softer and fuller bottom with his gaze, craning and twisting to keep it in view. Miss Jolly looked up, saw what he was doing and the furtive movement in his trouser pocket. She giggled maliciously. Sue sat back on her heels. Miss Jolly took over the work. As she did so, I saw Sue's lips move. “He's watching you again!” Presently Miss Jolly walked across in front of the window, turned her back, and bent over. All the time she watched the effect on Henry. The poor fellow's eyes rolled and he almost gave up the ghost. Sue slipped out and went back to the house. I could not resist staying to see the conclusion of this romance, for I knew by the enigmatic slant of Miss Jolly's eyes with the dark brows arching over them that the young bitch was up to no good. As she worked by the window where he stood, Henry was right over her while she polished away on all fours. He was trying to show her what he was up to in his pocket and at the same time admire the lasciviously rounded cheeks of Miss Jolly's bottom. She moved beyond his range. Henry could only follow now by edging his head through the iron railings of the fence and trying to look through another window beyond. The discomfort was nothing to him in his present state. He peered eagerly through that window, searching hopefully. Small wonder he could not see the girl, for she was moving soundlessly round the outside of the building. CHAPTER FIVE 23 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane I drew back into the trees. Miss Jolly came upon Henry from his blind side, seized the strong silk of his necktie and tied it round the iron bars so that he was caught with his head through the fence. Short of strangling himself, there was no escape. “Here, I say! Hold on!” he cried. But Miss Jolly, the randy little piece, got a loop of cord over one wrist and knotted it to a bar at one side. Then she treated the other in the same fashion. Henry was caught bending, quite literally, in his short black jacket and striped trousers. “Now you see here, my girl!” he cried, “My father is a Queen's Counsel! He'll be a judge soon enough! And so will I one day! Untie me—or it shall be the worse for you!” There was a devilish delight in Car' now, the feline beauty of her gold−skinned face alive with it. She played with the unfortunate boy as a beautiful cat might torment a mouse before the coup de grace. “You're a common shop girl, that's all!” Henry swore, struggling in vain. Fixing him with a dark enigmatic stare, she went through the little wicket gate and reached for the bell−pull by the school entrance. “Play fair!” gasped Henry. “I'll be birched if they catch me!” Baring her teeth in a malevolent little grin at him, the tawny−skinned young beauty pulled energetically. Distantly, the bell jangled in the porter's lodge. The old servant came out, saw Henry, and shambled off to inform the venerable Dr. Butcher. Miss Jolly now concealed herself in the stable block, and I stood out of sight among the trees. The aged porter returned with a note, which he pinned to the back of Henry's coat. It carried Dr. Butcher's signature and he read out its contents for the lad's benefit. “'To the farrier: 6 strokes of the birch well laid on!'“ The old man chuckled. “You'm to wait just as you be for the farrier to whip 'ee, Master Harry! Not as you could wander far, if you wanted to, trussed up like that!” In great good humour, the ancient servant shuffled back to his lodge and his pot of ale. Through the warm stillness, a hum of bees came heavily. A pure white cloud, the shape of a pear, moved lazily through the deep blue of the sky above the elms of Tremaine Park. Miss Jolly reappeared and walked round to the bending figure of Henry. The nimble fingers with which she dressed Sue or Jane now unbuttoned Henry, laying his trousers and underpants round his heels. Red−faced and white−bottomed, he struggled vainly. “I say! You can't leave a fellow like this!” Miss Jolly deftly pinned up his shirt above his waist, taking the little tacks from her lips. She surveyed him, bending helplessly. Her fingers did something between Henry's buttocks which caused his limp cock to jerk into convulsive stiffness. With an expression of disdainful curiosity, Miss Jolly took the prick with her fingers. She raised it, turned it, drew back the foreskin as if examining it inquisitively. Abruptly she let go. “Don't stop!” groaned Henry. CHAPTER FIVE 24 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Miss Jolly giggled. “Bend over properly, then!” she cooed. “Kneeling! Head down and rear−end high!” “No!” he was thoroughly alarmed. “Not when a chap's going to be swished!” She shrugged her trim shoulders and seemed about to leave him. Henry's cock hung half−stiffened and desolate. “All right!” he gasped. Sliding the knots down the iron bars, he was soon kneeling, hips raised and head well forward through the palings. Miss Jolly bowed her dark upward−brushed curls, the tall slope of her forehead, sharp nose, and tight mouth close to Henry as she examined his penis again with a little frown of concentration. She ran her last piece of cord round his thighs and trussed these to the ironwork, ensuring that his rump was presented fully. She took the penis in her palm. With little hip movements, the lad tried to rub it on her. Her fingers closed and she began to masturbate the young gentleman. In her other hand she held Dr. Butcher's note to the farrier, prescribing six birch strokes. “Want me to alter the '6' to '12'?” she teased. “No!” The nimble young fingers let go of his tool. “Yes, then! Oh, yes!” “Want me to alter it to '18'?” “Yes! Anything you like! But don't stop!” Finning up his prick with her left hand, she let him watch as her pencil altered the “6” to “8” and added a “1” in front of it. Kneeling beside him, she frigged him and at the same time picked a bunch of nettles carefully by their stems. She brushed these up and down on the cheeks of Henry's rump, leaving a scarlet sting−rash with every sweep. “Ow! Ooow!” he yelled. “Don't! It'll be agony to be birched on top of that!” Miss Jolly withdrew both her hands. “Don't stop!” howled Henry. She began again, both with his prick and the nettles. So while he howled with the scalding of the nettles on his rump−cheeks, his ecstasy was swelling in the hand of his almond−eyed mistress. She picked fresh nettles and pressed them between his buttocks. “Wear a nosegay for me, or else the loving stops!” she cooed. In his terrible dilemma, Henry would have endured anything for the excruciating pleasure to continue. “Love me?” asked the girl with a wicked smile. “Oh, yes, Car'! Oh, yes! Show me your cunt and arse! Please!” CHAPTER FIVE 25 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane With a lascivious little swagger of her hips she walked round to our side of the fence and knelt on all fours, her legs thrust back through the palings so that her seat and rear thigh opening were presented to Henry's face. Miss Jolly was a malicious little beauty, the dark lynx−eyes, the gold−skinned sharpness of her features and narrow chin would have done credit to the most wicked young temple goddess. Still reaching behind her to frig Henry, the girl let down her riding jeans. She was now on all fours, waist hollowed, trim hips thrust back hard, just like when Henry had watched her mopping the floor. The neat triangle of hair between her narrow loins was a dark brown. The tautly rounded coppery cheeks of Cara Jolly's bottom were pale by contrast with her slim brown waist. “This is how you like to see girls, isn't it, Henry?” “Oh, yes, Car'! Oh, yes!” He was pouting kisses between the rear opening of her thighs, nuzzling Miss Jolly's tight little cunt. He kissed her backside, tongued her cleft from the base of her spine until he was nibbling her clitoris. There could only be one outcome. Henry's head went back with a wild cry, his strong young prick spurted with such vigour that its thick streams spattered Miss Jolly's bum−cheeks and the rear of her slim thighs. “Duty wretch!” she yelled, scrambling up and snatching a handful of grass to wipe away the trickling passion. “Oh, Car'!” he murmured. “Again! Again! Please!” He was newly stiff already, his young prick aquiver like a compass needle standing out towards magnetic north. Miss Jolly gave him another wicked little smile. “The farrier's coming!” she whispered savagely. With that she pulled up her pants and walked into the stable block to watch. Would you have left Henry to his fate, I wonder? I confess to you that I acted without considering the rights and wrongs of the matter. First I made sure that the farrier was not yet on the way, by a glance in that direction. Miss Jolly, moreover, would be occupied with a sponge for a moment or two, and that gave me my chance. Moving on my belly, like the infantry under fire, I approached Henry, a finger to my lips. I undid his cords and tie and motioned him back into the cover of the hedge. He whispered his gratitude and withdrew, buttoning up his trousers. So far, so good. Yet he knew as well as I that the farrier would arrive and, if there was no culprit to birch, would return to Dr. Butcher or the porter to learn of the lad's identity. Feeling heartily sorry for Henry by this time, I took a handful of coins from my pocket, including several half−sovs, and laid them on the ground conspicuously on the far side of the fence, just where Henry had knelt. The farrier would think that the corns had fallen from the lad's pocket, for his father was rich enough to supply ample petty cash. I judged that the farrier's greed would get the better of him and that he would filch the money without pursuing the matter further. So Henry would be spared. Believe me, I never intended what followed my generous impulse! I stood concealed again, watching. In a few minutes, Miss Jolly was back. From the window she had seen that Henry was no longer trussed to the fence and so she bustled out to investigate, like a little Fury of the Pharaoh. Her eyes noticed the scattered corns. The temptation was too great. She went round to the far side of the fence, knelt down, and began to collect them greedily. CHAPTER FIVE 26 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Just then, Henry emerged from the hedge behind her with the strength of desperation. He threw a cord loop over her head and knotted her to the iron palings by this hempen collar!” “Nooo!” cried Miss Jolly, almond eyes flashing. “You dare!” But what could Henry lose? He grabbed her wrists one by one and tied them to the bars on either side. The tables were neatly turned! Soon Miss Jolly knelt on all fours, head through the bars, able to look from side to side but immobilised otherwise. Would you have intervened? It occurred to me that Miss Jolly supplied the missing body which the farrier expected 'to find! Henry was pinning to the tail of her singlet Dr. Butcher's note ordering eighteen strokes of the birch! A cruel punishment? Was it not Miss Jolly's own handiwork? What stony anger in her tight−lidded almond eyes now, matching the Turkomen beauty of her dark upward−brushed curls and sharp nose! You will recall how Henry loved the view of her polishing on all fours, the pale blue jeans tightly shaping the lewdly separated and perfectly rounded cheeks of Cara Jolly's bottom? Such was his view now! He undid her riding trousers and lowered them, laying bare the paler gold globes of Cara Jolly's backside. Plucking a spray of nettles, he tickled her hot little love pouch with them. She sang a clear soprano, “Ow! Ow! Oooow!” Was it anger or discomfort? “I'll enjoy watching the farrier birch your bottom, Cara Jolly!” Henry chuckled. “Let's prepare you with the nettles!” The leaf spikes brushed her tawny seat−cheeks as she writhed. He teased her between the cheeks and tucked the nosegay against Cara Jolly's arsehole. Despite her shrill protests it seemed that the light stinging of her cunt lips, clitoris, even her arse, had left them in a state of excited irritation. As Henry kissed and tongued her vaginal pouch, she gave little questioning sighs of pleasure. “Ah! Aaah! Ahhhh!” Now the farrier was on his way in earnest. Henry made a tactical retreat to watch from beyond the hedge. Would you not agree that it was impossible to interfere now without making matters worse? Since I take you for a man of the world, rather than a namby−pamby, I see you standing back among the trees, drawing on your cheroot with a quiet smile as you savour the ironies of life. I moved gently round so that my view was of Miss Jolly's rear rather than her face alone. I thought at first she was wriggling in desperation or discomfort. I was mistaken. The lingering effect on the nettles was to inflame and irritate her passions. She was squeezing and rolling her vaginal pouch and clitoris between the slim gold of her thighs. Her coppery bum−cheeks were tensing rhythmically and her hips moving in time to them. Miss Jolly could obviously hear the farrier's footsteps on the path and was desperately trying to achieve her happiness before his arrival. It was not to be, for he rounded the corner almost at once and she was obliged to finish off in front of him. The farrier was a burly man of about forty, stripped to the waist. His torso boasted a hairy barrel chest and the front of his trousers seemed heavily filled. He looked up and stared in astonishment at the culprit who was to be punished by the birch−rod he carried. Miss Jolly's trim, sandy gold body was bare from the singlet at her waist down to her knees. There was no doubt that those delectable slim thighs and cheeky seat were female! A moment ago the farrier had been looking careworn and out of temper. Now his mouth opened in delight and his eyes shone. He looked down at Dr. Butcher's note pinned on the girl's singlet. His smile broadened, and CHAPTER FIVE 27 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane when he saw the figure “18,” he drew breath sharply in gleeful anticipation. First of all, however, he crouched down behind the girl and opened her legs. He rolled the pouch of her love−lips between his horny finger and thumb. “There's a juicy little morsel!” he said in his rustic tone. He unbuttoned a heavy muzzle, and Miss Jolly gave a grateful little cry at the comfort of it inside her. The randy young piece badly needed to be brought to a conclusion. Kissing her ear gently, the farrier moved to and fro. “Why should a young devil like you want the birch?” he breathed. “I don't!” she wailed. “It's a mistake! A trick!” “That note ain't no trick!” he gasped. “'Tis Dr. Butcher's! You've got a tight round bottom, warm coffee−skinned colour! I'll enjoy birching you, Cara Jolly! You might enjoy it too!” He rode vigorously, strong loins whacking against her smooth round hips. Car” gave soft little cries of love. Her tight−lidded almond eyes with their high−pencilled brows turned to him adoringly. He gave a warning growl. “Not yet!” she cried. “I'm not ready!” Too late. The muzzle shot off its salvo in copious floods, as if assuaging the girl's erotic itch. Then he withdrew. “Again!” she cooed softly. “Please!” But the farrier had a duty to perform. The punishment birch was the usual type, three springy switches a yard long, bound at the handle and with the buds still on them. The pretty culprit was secured with her dark upward−brushed curls well lowered and her seat raised high. The view she thus presented to the farrier behind her was breathtaking! The long birch switches whistled and thrashed across the pale coppery cheeks of Cara Jolly's bottom, so tightly and separately rounded. She cried out and squirmed her hips slowly. Yet it was languor rather than torment in her lovely almond eyes. She was not a girl in unbearable agony. Her trim thighs tensed methodically on her love−pouch, her bum−cheeks contracting and swelling alternately. She panted with exertion and gave straining little gasps. Thus our randy young piece tried to nullify Dr. Butcher's penalty! Yet after only eight strokes from the farrier, her head went back, her eyes rolled, and she gave a soft happy cry. The farrier stepped away to adjust his belt for a moment. “You should have made your fun last longer, Cara Jolly!” Henry whispered. “Still ten more strokes—and no distractions now!” With redoubled vigour the farrier lashed the budded birch switches down. Each stroke left three raised cuts across the smooth, sandy gold rounds of Miss Jolly's seat. She sang loud, and clear as the slim wands curled and clung to her rear cheeks like a whip's lash. “I've had eighteen!” she shrieked as she felt the next coming. CHAPTER FIVE 28 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Six, more like!” chuckled the farrier. “Try to cheat the count? Just wait till I've tightened my belt again and eased my trousers!” Little chance of that! Even as the farrier approached, the coppery cheeks of Cara Jolly's bottom, with their raised stripes and ruby trickles, squirmed and rounded in uncontrollable panic. With lips tight and teeth set, the farrier birched her pretty rear−cheeks with a severity that would have been a legend in Dr. Butcher's academy. As he birched her bare buttocks, he made Cara Jolly scream so loudly that I was grateful we were so far from the main buildings! Henry, in the bushes, appeared to be holding something in his hands and polishing it vigorously. At last the farrier left Car' in her bonds. Henry slipped out as I tiptoed away. He nuzzled her consolingly. “Suck me while I kiss your pussy fur and examine your stripes!” he gasped. “When I watched you working, I imagined you being whipped!” In Jack's library I found a book on love's oddities by a frisky Latin author, Meibomius. There was no doubt that Cara Jolly masturbated while being birched. What did I read now? A remedy for increasing randiness by nettle stings! Small wonder that Henry and our golden−skinned little wriggler had tasted such ecstasy together! I was smiling at this as Jack entered. His sombre mood silenced my tale before I began. I saw the blue paper of the telegram in his hand and all my light−hearted banter withered at once. “It's up to us now, Charlie,” he said. “The regiment embarks at Portsmouth on Tuesday, bound for Durban and the war! CHAPTER SIX With Butter to Natal—Our sumptuous billet in Durban—My first encounter with Jack's latest mistress, Lesley—Her collection of young girls—Judith, a beauty of sixteen— Miss Jolly and the farrier again—Judith seduced—The lesbian wiles of Miss Jolly—A discussion of birch fever IT happened as Jack described. The officers and men of the Royal Sussex Regiment embarked at Portsmouth on the troopship Alexandra, bound for a month's voyage to Durban through the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal, and the Red Sea. Durban was the nearest city and port to the fighting in Natal, hence our natural destination. Knowing you well enough, I trust, I cannot suppose that you will wish to hear of the tedium of that voyage. Nor will I burden you much with the story of our part in the great South African War. You will, I know, agree with me that a man who talks loud about his part in such heroics deserves to be posted as a cad. Suffice it to say that Jack and I were gazetted to the General Staff Detachment in Durban. We were to act as couriers, bearing confidential papers to the front line, even at times slipping into the besieged cities of Ladysmith and Mafeking. We lived a strange life, alternately in the luxury of a Durban villa and then subject to the greatest privations of a forced march or a madcap gallop under the very guns of the Boer snipers. Yet what was our part compared to that of poor devils who fought the great battles in the dust and heat of the veldt? Had our mission not been war, the city of Durban would have served well enough for an earthly paradise. I was much taken with its wide, tree−shaded streets, its white houses, the shops and entertainments so agreeably laid out. We looked upon the vast blue of the Indian Ocean with its majestic breakers. So the cooling breezes CHAPTER SIX 29 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane there refreshed the town in the hotter months. Fruit of every description hung from the trees, and flowers of the brightest colours blazed in the gardens. The harbour had been used of necessity in time of war. Yet for the most part it was visited by surf boats, which brought their cargo through the thunder of waves to the sandy beaches. Jack Tremaine was not a fellow to abandon those close to him. By liner from England came his ward, Jane, her governess, Susan Ann, and the maid, Miss Jolly. We and they were accommodated in a large villa which he had taken—at whose expense I do not know. Upon our arrival there was already present a young woman, Lesley, and Judith, a beauty of sixteen. It seemed that Lesley, a runaway wife who was twenty−eight years old, had acquired a collection of young nymphs. Most were lodged in a reformatory for young ladies not far from the city. Whether this was just a matter of convenience or whether they were true delinquents, I did not yet care to ask! Though I chummed so closely with Jack Tremaine, I could not easily discuss the exact nature of his feelings for Lesley. They did not behave quite as man and mistress. I sensed that she had some design upon him, perhaps for his money, but that he well knew it and had taken his precautions accordingly. You have glimpsed the young woman already, but perhaps it may help if I explain my first impressions of her. She displayed a perverse, indifferent nature. As if denying her feminine allure, her straight fair hair was cropped short of her collar, shaped round her head. At the front she wore it in a long parted fringe. The perversity showed in her face as well. She had a firm fair−skinned face, straight nose, and blue eyes. Yet she seemed to mar this deliberately by the sulkiness of her mouth and jaw, as well as the disdain in her expression. I declined the challenge of conquering her, for she was the property, as I thought, of my friend Jack. No such consideration need restrain you if you feel moved to subdue her proud heart. Your labours would be well rewarded. Do you recall her, quite tall and trim, with long legs and thighs? Lesley's experience of the marriage bed (and those of her lovers!) has by now imparted a more womanly look to her breasts, that slight erotic firming out of her hips and seat, which gives her backside the appeal of a young Amazon girl. The perversity extended even to her costume. She could dress attractively in long skirts and smart boots. Yet she would garden in a coolie trouser suit of thin black cotton—a short jacket and close−fitting trousers. I watched her one afternoon and, I must confess, was obsessed by her aloof and resentful air. Jack told me that she had been married at twenty and had walked out on her husband and kids seven or eight years later in order to enjoy sexual emancipation with a lover. She was a spoilt, self−centred young woman, promiscuous and wilful. And yet! I watched her bend to her task. Her legs were braced apart and her knees bent a little. The thin black cloth of the trouser suit tightly shaped her proud young buttocks, the subtle erotic maturity imparted by childbearing. Lesley is a young woman who must either be mastered or avoided. Jack was surely too easygoing a fellow for her, I thought. She needed a lover who would spare her nothing in driving the arrogance out of her. He ought, I thought, to take her to a desert island and there put her to every ordeal of love and duty so that she might return softer and compliant. You will soon meet her again, of course, and see for yourself. Would you, I wonder, have chosen the conquest of Lesley as the goal of your pleasure? In Jack's company I passed tropic days and scented evenings lit by firefly or glowworm, drinking and talking after dinner in the fragrant garden. Young Jane was affectionate and wholly innocent. Susan Ann was my bed companion. Miss Jolly remained a source of fascination. I would not have you think, you see, that my life was sullied by my misgivings over Lesley! CHAPTER SIX 30 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane I have mentioned a collection of young nymphs who seemed to be in Lesley's charge, though at present lodged in the local girls' reformatory! I believed that they were “daughters of the regiment,” perhaps, to whom she was in some way governess herself. One other girl of Madame Lesley's entourage, and she the eldest, was then living under our roof. Let me tell you about Judith—and see if your mouth does not water, as mine did! At sixteen years old she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She was already quite a tall and comely young woman, demure and obedient. Her face was a pale oval graced by regular features and illuminated by wide−set hazel eyes. It was framed by a veil of light brown hair, which swept straight from the high crown of her head to her shoulders. She had a perfectly formed young bust, a slim back, and long slender legs. Even upon her sixteenth birthday, Judith already possessed a natural grace and beauty which would put any fashion model to shame. By a happy design, girl pupils of her age in that warm climate are not swathed in concealing woollens as they would be in England. A white blouse and tie sufficed above the waist. In the privacy of the villa gardens she wore a grey skirt so short that it would have been considered shocking even for athletic purposes by English prudery. Though showing her pale lower thighs, it was compensated for by black stockings whose elastic grip ran round just below her knees. Under a skirt so short it was impossible that she should wear long drawers. As if she had been a devotee of sport, she therefore had white cotton briefs stretched elastic−tight over her more intimate contours! On other occasions she might appear more formally dressed, and no less formally undressed. Lesley, being twenty−eight years old to Judith's sixteen, exercised a sort of natural authority over her. One day she was in the girl's room instructing Judith in the choice of a dress for that evening's dinner. I passed by the open door and stopped, entranced. My view was of Judith in the mirror. She wore a plum−coloured corset which came down to a vee between her thighs, though not quite covering her fair pubic hair. At the rear it was cut high and seatless. The suspender straps ran down either flank to secure her silk lilac stockings, which were drawn up to mid thigh. To complete the ensemble, she wore a pair of the latest Parisian knickers. These were of thin pale blue silk— closed drawers—which encased her from waist almost to her knees. I stared willingly at the long graceful young thighs, the elegant ovals of Judith's bottom−cheeks, the beauty of that pale oval face with its veil of brown hair sweeping to her shoulder blades. Had I known how fully my hopes were to be realised, I could scarcely have contained my joy. Judith was to be the centre of a little drama which developed in the household, though at first it did not involve her. The opening act of this comedy was the sight of Miss Jolly unlocking the side gate furtively late at night to admit a stranger. One always has fears about dishonest servants and burglars, so naturally enough, I kept watch. What I saw was the girl and a well−built man retiring towards a small outbuilding where a lamp was lit. Lighting an habitual cheroot, I maintained my vigil. There was little harm that could be done in the garden room itself, but I feared a dishonest fellow might lurk there and then attempt the house itself during the hours of sleep. Of course I had half guessed, as you will have done, the purpose of this visit. The guilty couple had made no attempt to curtain the window, never supposing they would be detected, and were easily observed. I waited a half hour before walking over and peeping through. The man was not to be seen and by the sound of running water was obviously washing himself. The randy young minx herself lay naked on the floor, her neat figure with its pale coffee colour now entirely revealed. She still wore her dark hair in its upward crop of curls. The tight−lidded almond eyes, the sharp little nose, and sloping brow were turned to the direction of the running water. CHAPTER SIX 31 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Though I supposed she was being enjoyed by a man, I had scarcely been prepared for the results, so potent and plentiful had his spending been. The dark triangle of her pubic hair was matted and glistening, where the man had withdrawn and spilt his gruel over her to avoid getting her belly up. The inner surfaces of her upper thighs shone with her own love−juice as well as his. She must have turned in alarm from the amount of his sousing, for I saw that Miss Jolly's arse−cheeks had also been amply splattered with the jets of her lover's sperm. All this was nothing, however, compared to what followed. The man sat in a chair, leaning back so that his head and torso were beyond my range. He had a great muzzle of a penis, even though it was limp, and I thought she must have a preference for such strapping fellows. She sat on her heels before him, her rump jutting cheekily backward as she leant forward. “Suck the penis, Car',” I thought, for it was clearly about to happen. And so the little vixen did! Her petite Eurasian beauty contrasted piquantly with the ungainly hulk of her lover. He made her suck slowly at first, as if drawing out the delight. Then he guided her head with his hands, making her draw faster upon him, warning her that she must be ready to swallow the thick gruel in a moment. He came vigorously. I watched the little movements of her slim throat and saw Miss Jolly, in an act of delightful lewdness, look up at her lover and slowly lick her lips! All this was remarkable enough for a fellow to see during his evening stroll, but it was surpassed in turn. I watched as her lover rose from his chair and revealed himself as no other than the farrier who attended Tremaine Park! I was so astonished that I nearly betrayed my presence by bursting out in a laugh. It was entirely probable, however, that the farrier should be there. He was eager to be called to the colours and to go with the Royal Sussex Regiment as a master of his trade. Such men are hard to find when the time is short and horses are to be cared for. Even this would have mattered nothing if the farrier had hot almost at once been posted to the line, leaving Car' bereft. We were, you see, a household of two men and five women: Jane, Judith, Lesley, Susan Ann, and Miss Jolly herself. In such circumstances, the fair sex may be driven to assuage their natural longings in ways which the world condemns. I was, of course, only Jack's guest, though I chummed with him and paid my share. There was a sturdy russet−haired servant girl, however—Nancy, by name—with whom I shared a pleasant night. In the course of this, she confided with great amusement that she had made the bed in Miss Jolly's room that morning. And there, among the rumpled sheets of restless sleep, she had found a pair of Judith Terry's knickers! I knew at once that it was Miss Jolly who was the instigator of this unlawful passion, for Judith was all demure innocence. By careful observation I determined the truth. Above all, I designed a humane outcome, for it seemed to me wrong that Judith should be shamed or tanned—which strict moralists would advise—for only following the promptings of desire. That night at ten o'clock, Judith retired to her room. Because it was only boarded from the bathroom and the boards themselves not a perfect fit, I was able to maintain a vigil. She shed her dress and petticoats, appearing as before in plum−colored corset, lilac stockings, and the tight silk veil of her knickers. Sitting on the stool before the dressing table, she carefully braided her light brown hair into two plaits for the night. She stood up and cast a wistful glance at her bed. Then in a gesture of charming naturalness, she slipped her pants down and stepped out of them. The knickers were inverted and turned inside−out by this process. Like a well−brought−up girl, Judith glanced at them to ensure that they were still serviceable for the next day, then laid them on the stool. CHAPTER SIX 32 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane What a beauty she was! The pale oval face and the thoughtful hazel eyes were a painter's dream! Her long elegant legs led one's eye naturally to the narrowing of her corset at her loins, the wisps of pale brown hair so charmingly concealing her pink young cunt. She turned to the bed, and the long sum legs were no less appealing from the back, leading this time to the other pale ovals—the graceful young cheeks of Miss Judith's bottom—excitingly displayed by the seatless corset. She lay down on the bed, turning on her back with her knees bent upwards and her legs parted a little. She opened a jar of cold cream, took some on the fingers of her right hand, and touched the lips of her cunt. I knew that I was going to see Judith make love to herself, as I had seen Miss Jolly. Yet the two young women were very different in type. Judith had been educated in the proprieties of life and therefore needed the pretext that what she was doing was merely to apply a preparation for the beauty of the skin in that area! Rubbing herself very lightly up and down the soft crevice, she lay there in the lamplight. Her thighs stirred lazily and she gave long sighs. Her lips parted a little with the more rapid breathing. Her eyes closed, fluttered open again, then closed in rapture. Soon she was too far gone to lie in so comparatively relaxed a pose. She turned on her side, knees drawn up, and squeezed her legs together on her hand. That would not do. She roused herself and looked round quickly for something to use in her lovemaking. The candles in that room were of the sort which have rounded ends as they reach the wick. Judith took one of these, turned on her side again, and gently inserted it into her cunt. Holding it there, she frigged herself by moving her hips upon it. Judith was in dreamland now, another world where she was spending a honeymoon with a man whom only she knew as she whispered. “Oh, my love! My love! Let me be your slave! Do as you will with me! Oh, my dearest!” No one could have been offended by such sweetness. Yet soon the handle of the door turned and another figure came upon the scene. It was Miss Jolly. Judith stopped her game and lay without moving. Then she turned into the young woman's arms. They lay head to tail for an hour, Miss Jolly obliging the girl to exchange tonguing and kissing of extraordinary lewdness. Here was the danger. For sixteen−year−old Judith to play with herself while awaiting marriage or a lover was natural. Yet Miss Jolly, bereft of her farrier, was coldly determined to lead Judith into the labyrinth of lesbian vice, from which no girl ever returns. I waited as she left the room and took her arm. She started, and the Turkomen mask of her face turned upon me. I led her to my room, for she well knew by this time that I had discovered her illicit amour. There I undressed her, spread her on her back, and threaded my rampant prick into Miss Jolly's cunt. She hissed and bit my bare shoulders, but in passion rather than protest for it happened when her climax came. I rogered slowly and repeatedly, filling my mistress's womb at midnight, again at two in the morning, and a third time at dawn. Next day I asked a favour of Jack, confessing that I had taken a lech for the randy young piece. So it was that Miss Jolly slept for the future in my dressing room. The only exit lay through my bedroom and, indeed, past my bed! You may be sure that she never got farther than this bed, for I kept the door to the landing locked to imprison her with me! Thus Judith masturbated innocently and alone. I gained a mistress who was a hot little wriggler. I flatter myself that she was soon consoled for what she had lost in the farrier's departure! I still recall waking from sleep to feel the velvety warmth of her cunt sheathing my stiffened prick. Her sharp Grecian nose and fine−browed almond eyes looked down at me as she rode on top— determined to rouse me from slumber, demanding more of the precious elixir to sooth her itching randiness. I suppose you will agree that it was a happy outcome for everyone. Fond as I am of Jack, I did not tell him of the affair between Car' and Judith. It was over, in any case, and I feared he might punish the sixteen−year−old CHAPTER SIX 33 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane girl for her perversity—or that if he did not, Lesley would. But I did tell him the story of what I had witnessed that afternoon at Tremaine Park between Miss Jolly and the farrier. You may be sure he laughed till the tears stood in his eyes! “So,” said I, “the farrier certainly enjoyed birching Cara Jolly's backside. But our little wriggler would never ask for such discipline again—not even from that strapping fellow!” “Perhaps not,” said Jack, though he looked doubtful as he refilled his glass. “Come!” said I. “You do not believe old wives' tales of girls asking for the birch in the height of their honeymoon passion?” “No,” said he seriously. “Yet you are young in the ways of the world, Charlie.” “Not too young to know that a girl fears a prison birch!” “I tell you,” he said quietly, “that the ways of female cunning are stranger than you imagine. Balzac was right when he said that a woman will show her backside—even for the rod—rather than her heart.” “Stuff and nonsense!” said I, and watched him shrug. “Ten miles from here,” he answered, “Mr. Miles keeps his girls' reformatory. You shall visit it with me next Justices' Night, when chastisement is administered. He keeps a girl of fifteen who has been there two years. She has been repeatedly caned or birched. Yet she will still commit any offence to ensure that she is in the punishment list. More than that, she will behave in such a manner while being tanned as to increase her strokes.” “I do not believe it is deliberate,” I said, “and I know I could give you an explanation that would prove so. I will wager you twenty sovereigns upon that, Jack. Here and now!” We made our bet in good comradeship and shook hands upon it. Next Justices' Night at the reformatory, where Mr. Miles was Jack's crony, should prove one of us right or wrong. Jack explained that the girl, Elaine Cox, was a robust young tomboy who had defied the disciplinarian master from the first. A moderate use of the birch was allowed on her bare backside when Elaine Cox was thirteen. It did not reform her. A full prison caning was given regularly across the bare cheeks of Elaine Cox's fourteen−year−old bottom. She merely incurred more chastisement. At fifteen years old, I thought, she must be a prodigy! CHAPTER SEVEN A visit to the girls reformatory—Mr. Miles, the master— A young lady with a curious lech—Elaine Cox, a bare−bottomed tomboy—Beauty and the birch—My own opinion AFTER dinner on the following evening we kept our rendezvous with the venerable James Miles, whom all the press in England once knew as “The Rhadamanthus of the Birch.” We bowled along through the warm jasmine−scented twilight in Jack's chaise and pair, trailing cigar smoke like a line−of−battle squadron and trying to imagine the scene awaiting us. Well clear of the town, on a remote moorland, stood the old reformatory where our wayward beauties underwent penance. It was an imposing building screened by a high wall, which the nimblest damsel would never scale. The grim−faced porter of the gate admitted us and led the way to the master's private apartments. CHAPTER SEVEN 34 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane The three portly magistrates who were there to witness the discipline greeted us with courtesy and knowing smiles. Our host was a burly man of mature years with dark beetling brows and a humorous manner. This, then, was the famous Mr. Miles. In his panelled dining room he poured fine old Madeira for his guests and led the way to the window. We looked down into the main courtyard where the girls were at recreation. The master turned to Jack and I. “To be sure, gentlemen, you chose a most opportune time for your visit. This, you see, is Justices' Night, when the magistrates may come to witness chastisement.” “I suppose,” said I, “most of your girls take good care not to be in the list then.” He looked at me and smiled. “So you would think, Captain De Vane! But what would you say to a young ruffian who would commit any crime to be tanned on Justices' Night? Hey? See her in the corner! Standing over a smaller girl in such a bullying manner!” In the courtyard below I saw Elaine Cox, our robust adolescent tomboy of fifteen. She was a shouting, striding youngster. The lank fair hair combed from its central parting lay loose upon her shoulders. Narrow eyes and thin mouth made the broad oval of her face a picture of snub−nosed insolence. Like the other girls, she was dressed—or half−dressed—to make any attempt to escape conspicuous. Her white blouse and her tie were accompanied by a grey pleated skirt worn scandalously short, as if she brazenly bared her sturdy young thighs to our view. Under a skirt so short she could only wear white stretched briefs of webbed cotton, like a ballet girl. Had she been allowed her freedom in such costume, many a middle−aged gentleman might have followed her path from school admiringly. A friendly breeze, wafting the skirt−hem high, might enchant him with a view of the rear of her bare thighs. The white stretched briefs would perfectly delineate for him the sturdily broadened young cheeks of Elaine Cox's arse! When Mr. Miles had refilled our glasses and the last of us had finished his cheroot, a matron was sent to summon Elaine to judgement. From the window we saw the youngster toss her fair hair indifferently and shout to her friends that she would see them after the show. Her nonchalance was scarcely believable. Master Miles led us down stone steps and along passages to the room where so much birch and bamboo had been worn away. It was prudently out of earshot of the others. We found it a long stone−flagged vault, gaslight flaring on bare whitewashed walls. The windows were high up and closely barred. Our eyes turned to the fixed wooden block at the centre of the floor and the selection of bamboo canes and triple−switched birches on a table beside it. Armchairs had been placed for us some eight or ten feet to the rear of this. Mr. Miles removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He went to the further door and summoned the girl, who had deliberately attacked a matron to earn this severest punishment. Elaine strode in with another defiant toss of her fair hair. Her dark, narrowed eyes with their fleck of green surveyed us in contempt. Even before the order came, she undid her short grey pleated skirt and stepped out of it. Turning her back to us, she knelt on all fours over the block. In this pose, her white stretched briefs showed her as quite a big−bottomed girl for her age. With a dry squeak of drawn leather the master cuffed her wrists at full stretch to the far side of the block. Buckled leather round her legs, just above her knees, secured her to it on our side. A broad waist strap was tightened to press her belly down on the top, hollowing the rear of her waist. Elaine Cox's tomboy backside CHAPTER SEVEN 35 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane thus swelled more fully, its cheeks parted. There was no doubt that she behaved with defiance and insolence in the face of exemplary chastisement. She seemed to have a lech for the rod, despite two years of discipline. Yet I could not believe that she or any girl would enjoy the cane! Certainly she did not behave as though she enjoyed it when the time came! However, several girls had been tanned already, including Elaine's elder sister. She, a plump slovenly girl of eighteen, had had the whip across her bare bottom. Perhaps Elaine was directing her fury at the justices on her big sister's behalf. Even so, both girls were whipped on our later visits, and I found that Elaine's conduct was just the same whether her big sister was punished or not! I could not explain her conduct, therefore. My thoughts were disturbed by a sudden outburst. Mr. Miles was easing the girl's knickers down. To free the warm twisted cotton, he touched rather intimately between Elaine's bum−cheeks and thighs. Tossing her hair back, craning round, she yelled, “You dirty, filthy thing!” The portly magistrates met her gaze with gleaming incredulity, reminding her of the extra chastisement earned by such impudence. Mr. Miles completed his arrangements, tucking up the blouse−tail well clear of the pale broadened cheeks of Elaine Cox's bottom. The mouths of the worthy magistrates rounded. There were sharp intakes of breath as they admired her fattened seat. So they gazed their fill, eyes probing intimately into the anatomy of her young arse. Craning round, she saw what they were doing and broke out furiously again, “You dirty brutes!” They met this bravado with amusement, smiling back at her and reminding her of the yet further strokes which would be given for such brazen insolence. Did she hope for leniency later on, perhaps? Surely not. She had been tanned regularly and knew the rules. When a bare−bottomed tomboy like Elaine Cox was strapped over the block, the eager justices were absolutely pitiless. The master chose a long and supple bamboo, slim as his little finger. He warned Elaine to call the number of each stroke before receiving it. If she failed or refused, she would get it anyway but it would not count towards the total of her punishment. Defiance would merely earn her a longer thrashing. I could scarcely believe my ears when the young ruffian swore foully at him and refused to count! Later I was to know the reason. At present it seemed that she had deliberately incurred a birching and was now trying to increase it by all means available to her. There was an electric excitement among the middle−aged justices as the master teasingly and repeatedly measured his cane across the full pale cheeks of Elaine Cox's fifteen−year−old bottom. The girl, despite her rebelliousness, was gnawing at her lower lip with desperate anxiety. Where her wrists were strapped tight to the block, her hands were clenched into fists. A smile played upon the master's lips as he measured the cane across her arse. “Thirty−six strokes of the cane across your bare bottom, Elaine Cox! Call for the first!” Still she refused but her backside was shifting and tensing with fearful anticipation under the menacing touch of the cane. “Keep your bottom quite still, Elaine!” said Mr. Miles sharply. Pursing his lips he raised the bamboo. Then it flashed down with an ear−splitting smack across the bare cheeks of Elaine Cox's bottom. She gasped at the atrocious smart and her sturdy young buttocks squirmed CHAPTER SEVEN 36 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane uncontrollably. The gasp became a cry as the impact grew to a swelling torment over several seconds. Mr. Miles timed the second stroke across her bum just as the naked anguish of the first reached its crescendo. Desperately she tried to twist her behind away, causing the third stroke to hit her right arse−cheek alone with double force. An urgent mewing escaped her pressed lips. The well−fed justices sat enthralled. The only sounds were Elaine's gasping and writhing in her straps, and the remorseless whipping rhythm of bamboo. As she twisted her adolescent rump aside, Mr. Miles reprimanded her with a wicked stroke of the cane across the back of her thighs. “Get your backside towards the witnesses, girl!” The justices sat well forward, open mouthed at the contortions of Elaine's broad young seat. After the sixth stroke came a quick, broken cry. Mr. Miles scented victory. He thrashed twice across the crown of her right bum−cheek alone and let her feel him measuring the next across the same tender path! She tossed her fair hair back and craned round again. The snub−nosed defiance was gone! She felt, as surely as we could see, the ribbed brands of the cane flaming across her pale arse−cheeks. The impudent mouth was woebegone, the sullen eyes imploring. With a face like a tragic mime she opened her mouth and yelled, “One!” Her adolescent backside was jigging, either to work away the smart or, perhaps, with impatience! The plump worthies smiled their satisfaction at her, showing their delight in her predicament. By her defiance she had reached a point where she could bear no more. Yet the official discipline had not even begun. The upholders of the law met her gaze with smiles and amazement at the state she was going to be in. The girl seemed deliberately to incur extra strokes while she could still bear them. She must have known she would not dare to risk a single additional lash of the cane at the end. No leniency, no reprieve was ever allowed by the keen−eyed justices. Again the master touched his bamboo lightly across the tensing cheeks of Elaine's behind, already artfully embossed by the swelling prints of the uncounted strokes. He brought down the cane across her buttocks with a report like a showman's whip. The broad oval of her face, framed by its lank fair hair, was a study in tearful consternation as she yelled back the count. “Two!” she cried. “Three! . . . F−o−o−ur! . . . FIVE! . . . SIX! . . . No! Not there! Not there! . . . Oh! My bottom! . . . Seven! . . . E−I−GHT!” I was intrigued to see how Elaine Cox's bottom−crack was sometimes pressed to a thin line as she clenched frantically. Then a well−aimed stroke would make her young backside surge out under the waist strap. Elaine's buttocks were thus pulled hard apart, regaling the justices with her complete rear view! “Impudent young baggage!” chortled the presiding magistrate. The whitewashed room rang with her cries, the impacts of the cane, and the master's rebukes. “Fourteen!” she yelled. Smack! went the cane across her bum. “Fifteen!” she howled. Wh−i−i−p! came the bamboo. “Stop!” she sang out. “For a minute! Please!” A whip−smack! of the cane answered this, and “SIXT−E−E−N!” came in a wild cry. Crack−smack! “SEVENT−E−E−N! with a new shrillness. Whip! . . . Crack−smack! . . . Whip! CHAPTER SEVEN 37 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane The tail of her blouse had worked down in her struggles to hang untidily aslant Elaine's reddened bum−cheeks. Tight−lipped, the master paused to pull it well up above her hips once more. “Get your fat young backside right over the block, Elaine Cox!” he snapped impatiently. “Show yourself properly to the justices while you're being punished! You ain't been brought here to act modest and bashful! That's better, miss! Much better!” He resumed with fresh vigour. The fattened tomboy cheeks of Elaine Cox's bottom looked as if he had made her sit bare for a whole afternoon on the most cruelly spiked thornbush while it was infested by angry wasps. With nostrils flared and eyes brimming, she screamed that she could not bear another stroke. “We'll decide what you can bear, miss!” said the presiding justice sharply. “We ain't satisfied with the state of your bottom yet!” Swallowing her tears, the youngster sobbed for the next lash. It landed across the weals of two others, close to the dividing crease of her buttocks and thighs. In a wild fury, Elaine Cox yelled out, “My arse! Oh, my arse! You bastards! You fucking bastards!” “Birch the slut twice for insolence, Mr. Miles,” said the president. If she found such discipline unbearable, they told me, she need only mend her ways. She did not mend them. Therefore she must be a sturdy adolescent well able to bear a prolonged prison birching. The most experienced gaoler could not have given the remaining strokes with more wicked skill and accuracy than Mr. Miles. After one savage lash of bamboo, Elaine Cox's tomboy bottom retorted with loud vulgarity. Tossing back her fair hair, she craned round at us with an “Ooooo!” of fright at what she had just done. She knew the penalty! The presiding justice gave her a long, knowing smile. Then he said, “Six extra strokes for such rudeness, Elaine!” He guessed rightly that her fright came from the desperate state she was in. She knew that the atrocious smart of the next stroke was going to make her young backside do it again, which it did. To the delight of the witnesses, she disgraced herself four times in the last dozen lashes. This ensured that Elaine Cox's schoolgirl bottom would be presented bare over the block next Justices' Night. Mr. Miles took the young rebel to the very last stripe. He stood back, laid down the cane, and mopped his brow. The strictest disciplinarian would have approved the state of Elaine Cox's fifteen−year−old backside. The crowns of the cheeks blushed beetroot red. Several ruby droplets had left a trickling path down her seat and upper thighs. Despite this, her master had given the last stroke with as much bravura and skill as if it had been the first! Elaine was released. Sobbing and walking awkwardly, she was permitted to adjourn to the toilet to put herself to rights—if she could. Some of the justices were now to try their skill upon other pretty culprits. So the good Mr. Miles slipped out through a door behind us. Mr. Snook, the presiding justice, went to the further door and called, “Sally Fenton!” There entered a girl of fourteen in short white singlet and briefs of stretched cotton. With her lithe and lightly sun−browned figure she had the air of a cockney urchin girl. Her high cheekbones and knowing blue eyes were matched by fair hair cut pageboy short and curled at its edges. The brief costume showed trim legs, hips and buttocks that were lightly muscled, a straight back, and neat breasts. She was, no doubt, guilty of loud−mouthed banter or smoking cigarettes on the sly. CHAPTER SEVEN 38 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane The worthy Mr. Snook strapped her kneeling over the block, then pulled her briefs down. Sally Fenton's bottom was summer and tauter than Elaine's had been. He took a well−soaked birch, made of three yard−long switches bound at the handle. Pretending to be dissastisfied with her posture, he lovingly and slowly positioned her with his own hands. In other words, he found a perfect excuse for fiddling with her for several minutes, his ringers frequently roaming between the cheeks of Sally's youthful backside or even between her legs! At length, with voice quivering and trousers tight round his swollen erection, he croaked out, “Twenty strokes of the birch, Sally, you young trollop!” Sally's impishness dissolved in a wild cry as the birch thrashed down across her bottom−cheeks, leaving three raised cuts in parallel across her firm young buttocks. Jack caught my attention just then and motioned to me to follow him. He slipped from his chair and went out through the door which Mr. Miles had used. Mr. Snook and his colleagues scarcely noticed our departure. Outside in the passageway, Jack laid a finger to his lips. I stood still, listening. Ahead of us was a partially open door, from which issued a sound like a prize porker grunting contentedly in its sty. Behind the punishment room lay a smaller apartment, with an ulterior window looking into the place of chastisement. But what strange creature could have set up such grunting there—and why? We moved without a sound to the aperture between the door and the jamb so that we might satisfy our curiosity. When I saw what was happening in that tiny room, I felt as if I must have gone stark mad. The worthy Mr. Miles now sat in a leather chair, his trousers round his ankles, his weapon rising proud and stiff from his loins. His eyes were round and wild with excitement as he watched through the private interior window the birching of Sally Fenton's bottom. What sent my brain spinning like a top was the sight of Elaine. She knelt on all fours in the space before the master, still bare except for her blouse and tie. While Mr. Miles had eyes only for lithe sun−browned Sally under the birch, Elaine was kissing and licking the red swelling knob of her master's tool. Could this be the same girl who was so defiant and who had just received such condign chastisement from Mr. Miles? There was no doubt of it. From our point of vantage we saw the wild, inflamed features of Mr. Miles. Of the girl, we saw most fully her well−disciplined buttocks and the single dark cyclopean eye of Elaine Cox's anus. Lifting her head, she tossed her fair hair back, then she bowed once again to her task. Imagine yourself in the master's place, being loved in this way by Elaine. She did not move her head much at first. Instead, with teasing movements of her tongue, she worked back his foreskin and played so exquisitely on the sensitive place that he clutched the arms of the chair as one demented. Elaine tongue−tickled him in this manner all the time that Sally was being dealt with by Mr. Snook. The veins of Mr. Miles's prick stood out as if they must burst with fullness. I felt a pang when I saw our pretty Jane taking off her cotton pants and going over the block for Mr. Snook. Mr. Miles groaned and howled with longing at the sight of her firm pale features, the straight brown hair with its pretty fringe. Mr. Snook measured the cane across the firm resilient pallor of Jane Mitchener's fourteen−year−old bottom. Mr. Snook bamboo'd Jane with very great strictness. Perhaps it was this—or more likely the manner in which Elaine sucked and pumped on his tool—which caused the explosion of Mr. Miles's lust. No doubt Elaine had sucked off boys of her own age, but her middle−aged master was their equal. Faster and faster she drew upon CHAPTER SEVEN 39 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane him with lips and tongue. With mouth stretched and eyes bulging, Mr. Miles shot jet after jet of thick gruel over her tongue and down her gullet Elaine's throat moved as she swallowed cautiously. Then, at last, she sat back on her heels. Now I must make a confession to you. I thought, do you see, that Jack had played me false in the wager. I could not think why Elaine should behave first as she did over the block, then as she had done in sucking off her master, unless she had been put up to it by a bribe. We moved silently away from the door and later took our leave of Mr. Miles. As we drove back, I confronted Jack straight and true. “I don't welsh on a pledge, old fellow,” said I, gently reproaching him. “You shall have the twenty sovs. But it ain't fair play and you know it.” He was so taken aback that he reined in the horses and stopped. “Not fair play, Charlie?” His dark brows knitted in dismay. “No, Jack,” said I. “There's but one way for Elaine to behave as she did. You must have tipped her something handsome to do it. It was well acted, Jack. But it ain't fair play. Damme, it ain't!” “Charlie!” he said, his voice quiet with the shock of it. “On my honour! On the honour of the regiment! Everything you saw was genuine—real. I never in my life spoke to that girl!” “Act like that when she was tanned, Jack? Then gamahuche him willingly? She could have him dismissed from his place for it!” “But she won't, old fellow,” said Jack softly. “There's reason in this, though you mayn't see it. But you shall see it, with your own eyes. For I believe our friendship depends upon that.” “Well then, Jack,” said I, “be sure it is what I mean to do!” CHAPTER EIGHT An explanation—Elaine Cox, a tomboy in tight trousers—Her continued defiance—Elaine's young bottom in trouble again! —Her lech for further chastisement— James Miles and his secret—A young filly well ridden on a sofa SEVERAL times in the following weeks we visited Mr. Miles at his house of correction, yet saw nothing to explain the mystery. Jack would say nought, except that I must “see with my own eyes,” nor would he take a penny of the twenty sovs. You may imagine how eager I was for an explanation because the issue of our friendship seemed almost to depend upon it. It was our third or fourth visit, quite early one morning, which enlightened me at last. We were familiar enough to the grim−faced porter of the lodge now and were left to wander at will within the high walls which confined the girls to their place of penance. Mr. Miles having given us the freedom of the premises, we strolled into the master's courtyard with its charming beds of flowers before the ground−floor offices. There was a desk in the window of one of these where the master sat working at his papers, for here was his study. On this occasion a dozen of the girls in white singlets and working trousers had been put to weed the flower beds, under the immediate supervision of Mr. Miles as he toiled at his desk. Elaine had chosen to work in the bed directly outside his window, no more than six feet away from him. She was dressed in a white singlet CHAPTER EIGHT 40 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane with short sleeves and tight trousers of a smooth lavender cloth, strained into a narrow waist by means of a stout leather belt. To anyone standing behind her, Elaine's sturdy well−filled seat presented an almost perfect circle. Jack drew me aside behind a screen of foliage from which we could observe both the girl and her master, though remaining concealed ourselves. Furtive as a pair of schoolboys, we lit up a couple of Flor Rothschilds and settled down to await events. The other girls worked with fearful diligence at their tasks. Elaine tossed back her fair hair and looked contemptuously about her. She knew how easily the master was provoked into having her backside bare over his sofa for a bamboo lashing. Yet she wore the tightest possible trousers to urge him on by displaying the robust young contours of her seat more fully! Any man walking behind her, seeing her in the white singlet and tight blue grey trousers might stiffen at the sight of those sturdy adolescent buttocks. Such a promenade behind her might make the mildest fellow a disciplinarian. What he would give to be reformatory master for a week and to have Elaine Cox's fifteen−year−old arse under correction! Regardless of such perils, the young ruffian stood with her back to the master's study window, only a few feet before him through the glass. Then she stared back over her shoulder with calculated insolence. Presently Mr. Miles glanced up and saw the broad oval of Elaine's face, the narrowed eyes, the thin defiant mouth, the lank fair hair combed from its central parting to lie loose upon her shoulders. He opened the casement window a notch and ordered her sharply to bet work. The other girls glanced round, shuddering at the threat for Elaine's sake. Cheeky young Sally had been birched two days ago and now bowed her pageboy crop industriously, desperate to avoid a reprimand. Linda, a lascivious little blonde, and Sandra, a sensible girl of fifteen, were wide−eyed at Elaine's bravado. Slow and reluctant, Elaine kept her back to Mr. Miles as she bent right down and began to pull the weeds from the soil. In this delightful pose, she offered him the fattened cheeks of her tight−strained trouser seat. The youngster carefully kept her rump towards him as she worked, ensuring that he got a full view of it all morning. Poor man! He studied his papers but it was no use. Within a few minutes his eyes wandered to the scene outside his window. For a whole morning he was to be confronted by the sight of Elaine Cox's sturdy young backside as she shifted, stooped harder, always turning it towards him as if in deliberate invitation. Mr. Miles sat well forward, tongue running eagerly upon his lips as Elaine bent before him. His eyes and head followed her slight movement, always seeking the best view of her tightened and broadened trouser−seat. The other girls appeared abashed and terrified on Elaine's behalf. What was more extraordinary—as soon as Elaine realised that the master was watching her, she began to malinger deliberately. He went to the window once or twice to warn her of the consequences. At length he said, loudly enough for Jack and I to hear as well as the girls of the gardening detail, “Your last warning, Elaine Cox! The birch next time!” It was as incredible as the events of the other evening, as much so to the girls as to ourselves. Elaine pushed her rump out harder and made a feeble pretence of weeding. Then she waited, bending in complete idleness until the master looked up again. Poor fellow! Put yourself in his place for a moment. With a young tomboy bending and inviting discipline in this manner, how much work would you have done? Before he could say a word, the issue was decided by a retort of the most vulgar nature as Elaine Cox farted loud and hard. It was in the nature of the girl that she should perform this last and most inelegant defiance. CHAPTER EIGHT 41 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Report to the study for a birching, Elaine Cox!” cried Mr. Miles in a raucous voice for the others to hear. “You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to!” yelled Elaine. “You're too scared to breathe outside your own front door!” With another contemptuous toss of her fair hair she went in to report for punishment. The other girls trembled, as much at Elaine's fortitude and audacity as for what would now happen to her. Jack plucked me by the sleeve and whispered, “Quick and quiet as you can, old fellow! We must see the windup of this little comedy.” Like shadows, we passed into the building and approached the study. To my surprise I heard Elaine's voice saying belligerently, “No, not in the study. Down in the punishment room!” It was extraordinary that a culprit should be allowed to dictate the place where she was birched! However, she was escorted to the room of her choice by Mr. Miles alone. Jack and I followed cautiously. Most conveniently, we were now able to make use of that little room with its private window which looked into the chamber of discipline. As we arrived, the girl was undoing her waist belt and taking off her trousers. Elaine Cox's knickers were once again white stretched briefs of elasticated cotton such as a ballet girl or a schoolgirl would wear. She was dressed only in these and her short white singlet. We waited for her to kneel over the block but instead she walked across to a horsehair sofa which had been pulled out from the wall to the centre of the room. She knelt upon this, going forward so that her arms were folded upon the scroll at the end of the sofa and her head rested upon her arms. Mr. Miles approached but make no attempt to strap her down. He sat behind her on the sofa and very lovingly drew her pants down. He made her open her knees a little as she knelt there. He kissed her first on one bottom−cheek, then the other. He imparted a score of light, pouting kisses between her buttocks, his lips moving down until he was kissing the lips of her cunt with their light moss of fair hair. I was still utterly bewildered and no nearer to seeing the answer to the riddle. The master was kissing and tongue−tickling the girl's clitoris now. His free hand opened his trousers and released his imprisoned erection. Elaine's head was turned aside as it rested on her arms, and we could see that her face had exactly the same expression of sullen indifference as when she was brought there to be caned several weeks before. “Is your cunt ready now, my sweetest?” asked old Miles eagerly. “If you want,” she said with a knowing grin. “He knelt behind her and entered dog−fashion from the rear. To see the venerable Mr. Miles fuck was an education. He moved in a quick, butting action, almost as if he meant to knock the girl flat. The unevenness of his copulation matched that of his temper. As for Elaine, her hips were grinding and squirming into his loins with a motion very like her writhing under chastisement. “Your thighs further apart, Elaine!” implored the panting master. She obliged him and his rhythm took on a new vigour, riding at a gallop. The sofa springs sang and the master chortled. “Oh, Elaine, my love!” he cried. CHAPTER EIGHT 42 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Creak−creak went the sofa, slam−slap went the sound of male loins on female hips. But Mr. Miles was soon in a quandary. He dared not risk impregnating Elaine, for he was the only man in the reformatory and thus certain to be detected. He could not ask the girl to take in her mouth a prick that was piping hot from her cunt. He sprang away, almost whimpering with frustration, and ran across the room for a jar, his prick wagging splendidly from his open trousers. Elaine slid down on to her belly, the sofa cushions under her stomach to raise her behind by twelve inches or so. Mr. Miles's hands trembled as he approached the full pale cheeks of Elaine Cox's tomboy bottom. She shook her hair again and looked round at him as he quickly lubricated her rear entrance. Kneeling astride her thighs, he parted her buttocks and adjusted his knob between them. There was a sudden thrust, a wince from the girl, and a wild “Ah−ah!” from the master as if the tightness were almost unendurable. With a hand on either side of her hips to steady her, he buggered Elaine at great leisure, knowing that he might flood her young bottom to the brim with his lust without the risk of paternity. Elaine might be hard pressed to contain herself immediately afterwards while her backside was soundly birched, but that was her problem. The great consideration for Mr. Miles was that when he gave her leave of absence, Elaine would discharge the load of guilty passion easily and without the aid of a midwife! “Did you fart deliberately before my window, Elaine Cox?” he was crying in his delirium. “Did you ask to be corked tight as a bung−hole, you vulgar young slut?” He was shouting so loudly that it was well for him the room was almost soundproof. Then there came what was, for James Miles, a moment of tenderness. “Lie still, Elaine!” he gasped. “The full length of the penis up your behind now! Now, if you please, tight little squeezes with your bum−hole on my shaft! Ah— exquisite!” We saw the hollowing at the sides of Elaine's hips as she contracted rhythmically upon him. “Now it's going to come!” he cried. “Stick your backside right out! Let me get even deeper in! Feel how far up your bottom the knob is, Elaine Cox? I'm going to give it you right in your tripes!” He continued in the same romantic vein. “I want to pump your backside so full of sperm, Elaine! So full you can hardly hold it all when I pull the cork!” As the youngster turned her face, her snub−nosed impudence was suffused with alarm at the storm which was about to break in her young behind. The master threaded her deeply. “One little squirt to get you ready, Elaine!” he cried. Then the torrent came. “Elaine! Oh, my darling, my darling Elaine! Feel the thick hot jets pumping into your bottom, Elaine! Oh, you young slut, Elaine Cox! You little whore! Elaine, darling! Aaah!” He lay recovering for several minutes. Elaine cautiously squeezed out the limp cock from her behind. It fell listlessly and left a fading trail of passion across her pale, fattened seat. James Miles stood up and reached for the spanking paddle with its long handle and thin oval blade of leather. He strapped the girl's wrists to one end of the sofa, her ankles to the other. She made no protest, lying willingly on her belly over the cushions. He raised the spanking paddle and brought it down on each cheek of her backside alternately. Whack! Smack! Whack! Smack! “He's mad!” I hissed to Jack. “And she's madder still!” Elaine gasped and squirmed under the tanning, which sounded perhaps more agonising than it really was. At length Mr. Miles took up the prison birch, three yard−long switches bound at the handle. His penis stiffened again as it stood out from his open trousers, and he grinned at the girl in delight. Elaine Cox lay bare−bottomed on the sofa waiting. At last he spoke: “I'll finish you off with twelve strokes of the birch, Elaine!” ' CHAPTER EIGHT 43 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane The youngster was tense and apprehensive, but there was no cursing or defiance as she tossed her hair clear and turned her face to watch him. He leant over her and his moist prick nodded stiffly against her bum−cheeks, which were burning red from the spanking paddle. Then he stood back and raised the birch. With teeth set and lips drawn back, he lashed the birch across Elaine's backside. She screamed with mouth distended, her buttocks writhing and contorting. He thrashed her sturdy young bottom again and again. As she sprawled on her belly over the cushions, the cheeks of Elaine Cox's tomboy bottom tensed and twisted. Frantically she tried to contain herself—and to contain the fullness of her master's abundant passion. As if to prevent this, Mr. Miles birched with all his skill, while Elaine tightened her behind urgently. Each stroke of the birch left the prints of its switches, three raised cuts. At last she was permitted to retire and ease herself of his lust. She also changed into blouse, tie, short pleated skirt, and white stretched briefs. I have told you my story exactly as it happened. Can there be any doubt that the girl was a willing victim? Did she not ask for every act that was performed upon her? Elaine Cox's bottom was what roused the master, and she had almost stuck it in his face as she bent to work in her tight trousers! Can you guess the secret of her conduct? Have no fear, I was about to discover it. Will I share the secret with you? Of course I will! That afternoon we spied again. Elaine and her friends walked to the girls' lavatory. Leaving the door open, she turned her back to the onlookers. She dropped her skirt and stooped, pressing both hands on the wooden rim of the seat. Then Sally stepped forward and pulled Elaine Cox's schoolgirl knickers down to her knees. There were gasps of admiration. She had had only twelve strokes of the birch. Yet the spanking paddle produced dramatic appearances while stinging only a little. It seemed that Elaine had willingly endured the most ferocious discipline. She stood up and looked round at them with a toss of the head. “See? That old bugger Miles couldn't hurt me if he tried!” One girl ran a bath for her. Others fetched her candy and treats from their privilege rations. They were her servants—or, rather, slaves! I asked Jack's forgiveness for doubting him. “There's your answer, Charlie,” he sighed. “What will a woman not suffer for vanity? Did you never guess? Elaine is bully of the reformatory. The other girls obey her and fear her more than they do the master. No one dares challenge her for her place by defying old Miles as she does. Every few weeks she takes a birching where no one hears her screams. Then she comes back, shows her stripes and tells them the master can't birch for toffee. He keeps her secret so long as she lets him use her on the sofa. Only he and the justices hear her weeping, screaming, pleading under the cane. Come to think of it, old fellow, don't they make a perfect couple?” Jack had some private business with the master. Standing alone, I heard our pretty imp Sally talking to a new girl of Elaine's bravado, as she believed, when thrashed before the justices. “Why,” says Sally, “they strapped her bare−bottomed over the block and told her to count the strokes. So Elaine tells 'em to fuck off. She won't count! They caned her and caned her. They couldn't make her count or even yell! They just had to give up. You should have seen the state of her backside! But Elaine don't care.” Thus heroes—and heroines—are made! While she could still bear to, Elaine earned extra stripes to show her cronies. When Elaine screamed and pleaded under the rod, the master kept her secret. In return, he demanded the pleasures of the horsehair sofa! Mr. Miles walked with us presently to the main gate and we took our leave. CHAPTER EIGHT 44 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Be sure, gentlemen,” he said, “you are welcome always on Justices' Night as my guests!” We thanked him and, indeed, availed ourselves of his land invitation several times in the future. We even witnessed Elaine and Pauline bare−bottomed over the block side by side. Yet even during that magisterial whipping we never saw anything to equal the strange conduct of Elaine that first night. I was not to become an amateur of the chastisement of young women, which I saw on only two occasions apart from the reformatory visit. Yet, to be sure, it opened a vista for me upon one of the strangest prospects of human conduct. Jack Tremaine—or rather the storyteller Balzac—was right. Elaine Cox had willingly shown her backside in order to conceal the devious ways of her feminine heart. As we drove back to the villa through the warm countryside, Jack turned to me. “Well, Charlie? Was I not right in the end?” “You were, old fellow,” said I. “Yet so was I, in a sense. For she did not enjoy the rod, though Miles made it seem much worse than it was.” He shook his head, as if despairing of my stupidity. “Charlie! Charlie! Do you not know that a woman will suffer torment in the service of her vanity? Some, men as well as women, will die or kill others for their vanity. What is war but vanity? Elaine is too young to think of being a beauty, or conquering men's hearts. Yet she has a vanity. The price she pays is less than some women who are far older and more beautiful than she!” I mused upon the truth of this solemn thought until he turned to me again. “Tell me true, Charlie. Will you ever doubt my wager again?” “Never!” I said, taking his hand in a manly grasp. And I never did! CHAPTER NINE Going to the wars!—A bachelor life?—Jack's ingenious suggestion—Noreen, a shop girl, becomes my groom!— Riding to battle—Noreen holed fore and aft—Our mission of secrecy to the defenders of Ladysmith—a safe return SOON after our adventure at the girls' reformatory, there occurred a most unexpected development. Lesley was to travel to Cape Town to make arrangements concerning the girls in her care. The hazards of war, even in so remote a part, were undeniable. “Charlie, old fellow,” said Jack over breakfast, “Lesley Jane”—he called her this as a pet namer—“Lesley Jane asks if you and I will stand guardian to the girls if she should be killed.” I swallowed my coffee hard and stared at him. “Dammit, Jack! You and I are a sight more likely to die than she!” Yet my mind's eye showed me as sole owner of Judith, Jane, Sally, Linda, Sandra, even Elaine. How many more? So indeed I was ready to stand guardian I almost willed the event to happen. That week the papers were drawn up and signed by the three of us. CHAPTER NINE 45 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane After such precautions, Lesley seemed to lose eagerness for her journey. Instead, Jack and I received orders from General Scott to carry despatches to the gallant defenders of Ladysmith. We were not to attempt a dash through the Boer lines into the township but rendezvous with a secret patrol from the town whom we must alert by the flashing of a heliograph. As our duties multiplied, it seemed that we might become guardians of our charming girls—but we should be mere absentee masters! Ladysmith lay some two hundred miles off, beyond the Tugela River, a long ride through brown South African veldt and past majestic flat−topped hills. The Boer marksmen enjoyed a real advantage in that terrain for they were equipped with Martini−Henry rifles and smokeless “Prussian” cartridges. From the cover of scrub and brushland they might lay down a murderous fire upon our red−tunic'd columns. There was never a puff of smoke to show where the bullets came from. Jack and I were aided by the railway, which was still safe for armoured trains as far as the junction of Pietermaritzburg. It was there that Sir Redvers Buller commanded the Natal Relief Force, not two days' ride from the Tugela Heights above Ladysmith, where we were to rendezvous with the defending patrol. “Damme, Jack,” I said the day before we left, “what wouldn't I give to lie here instead—with John Thomas tucked safely up Miss Jolly's cunt?” He laughed and seemed to change the subject. “Have you got a stable lad, Charlie? You may take one upon a horse patrol.” “No,” said I, not greatly pleased by this new topic. “Then come and see,” said Jack with a wink, “whether a stable girl might not do for you just as well!” I was later to learn that Lesley had facilitated this generous arrangement. As yet, however, Jack's design was still dark to me. We rode into the town and stopped before the windows of a fine saddler's, whose plate glass formed tall display cases. “Behold,” said Jack, “she is yours if you fancy her for a night in the sleeping car there and back. I have my companion already. We may lodge them at Pietermaritzburg, ride to do our business, and fetch them on the way home. The saddler will not mind so long as you pay the young trollop's wages for a week.” So it was I first saw Noreen. She was indeed a trollop, but a provoking one. And what could be worse than five days of a standing prick with no girl to ease the ache? She was occupied in the window, arranging the polished leather merchandise. Noreen was a well−made girl of nineteen or twenty. I thought her quite tall, her dark brown hair worn in the simple fashion of those parts, straight and lank to her collar, framing her face and forming a level fringe on her forehead. She had a pale, strong−featured face and a lazy insolence in her brown eyes. Her dress was quite unlike the town−bred miss of the English middle class. She dressed as riding girls do in the colonies and the country. A pale blue singlet to her waist clung to her strong, narrow back and soft young breasts. She wore a broad waist belt of brown leather. This secured a pair of tight, pale blue riding jeans, showing her fresh from the saddle. We stood there, obliging her to endure our admiration as she worked. She shook the pageboy length of her brown hair and looked round at us, briefly and with indifference. I was enthralled by the prospect of becoming the possessor of those limbs which the tight, pale blue riding jeans outlined to me. Noreen was a healthy, CHAPTER NINE 46 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane well−exercised girl for all the fairness of her skin. The tight pale denim showed that her thighs were taut and lightly muscled. From the front I viewed the narrow triangle above her cunt, which was so soon to be at my disposal. She was an unmarried girl and had not yet whelped, as the saying goes. Her young belly was therefore still firm and quite flat. You may be sure that I was pleased to find, as she turned, that she was also well made in the seat. The cheeks of Noreen's bottom were nicely filled out but without a pinch of surplus fat. Close by us in the street was an amateur cameraman, taking views of the town. I could not help noticing that his lens was apt to point towards the sunlit window where Noreen worked! As I watched, there was no doubt of it! He was taking full−plates of her face, front views, poses of her standing, sitting, or kneeling, and rear views as Noreen bent tightly over. This sportsman wore a clergyman's collar and a look of great earnestness, which suggested that he longed to walk up to the window and show Noreen the splendid condition of his penis! I went up to the glass and examined her boldly, making no such secret of my interest in her. The tight singlet showed that her breasts were indeed firm and her belly flat. The broad belt of brown leather round Noreen's waist had a model harness brass. I thought of the pleasure there would be in harnessing this firm−Moped young filly between the shafts! She had finished her work now and was polishing the area round the exhibits with a tin of wax and a soft cloth. When she was done, we would make our bargain with the saddler. I waited impatiently, watching her back towards me on the other side of the plate glass, her head bowed and hands busy. I admired her as she sat on her heels, working. Then she lifted her hips and went forward on hands and knees. The pale blue denim was drawn tight as drumskin across the strong mounds of her buttocks. The central seam of the jeans seat was pulled deeply and suggestively into the cleavage between Noreen's bottom−cheeks. Finding a pretext to stoop, I saw that it even parted the lips of her cunt, for it was strained taut as a hawser wire between her legs! I guessed how much the girl must enjoy a canter in such riding trousers. Smiling at this, I turned away. I almost collided with the reverend photographer, who was taking shot after shot of the view which had just held me in such suspense! It was not hard to guess that Noreen used her riding costume and her place with the saddler to advertise her own wares. Yet, I thought, better she than no one as my companion in the sleeping cabin on the armoured train. Jack had his companion too, but more of that anon. Do you envy me my two nights with Noreen? Do you, really? Then you are mistaken, as I was. For the pleasure which I enjoyed with her, I very nearly paid with my life. A sovereign in the palm of a railway official was enough to ensure that Noreen was smuggled into the little sleeping cabin with its fine walnut panelling and comfortable bunk. She wore the riding costume still, for it was supposed that she accompanied me as a stable girl! Jack and I dined well and I returned to the cabin with half a bottle of the Widow in my blood and lust in my heart. Noreen waited in lazy contentment, for on my instructions she had been dined too and lay now with a full belly. A man uses different manners with different women—courtly or vulgar according to type. Here it was appropriate to sit down and say: “Noreen, you young trollop! Come here and put yourself across my knee. Before I could do so she began to unfasten her leather belt. “Not yet, Noreen,” I said gently. “I shall undress you myself presently. First I would have you kneel down and suck the prick.” CHAPTER NINE 47 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane I wanted, you see, to test her capabilities in the simplest way. Shaking the fringe clear of her eyes and her dark brown hair into place, she knelt and bowed her face to begin sucking. “Work your singlet up, Noreen,” I said. “I must fondle your young breasts while you suck.” She obeyed and duly took my stiffened tool in her mouth. Noreen sucked slowly and with every refinement of tongue, tickling and working round the penis−vent and foreskin. I took her soft bubbles in my hand and moulded them firmly. So fine was her skill that I gasped at length, “Who taught you so well, Noreen? Did you begin sucking boys on the sly? Or did the old saddler tram you with a leather dildo?” By way of reply she drew her mouth back and said, “Squeeze my tit−cherries with your finger and thumb. Do it hard as you like. It doesn't hurt me. I like it!” She had the soft country voice of her English origins. I put her nipples to a thorough testing and then had to draw her from my cock for fear of spending. I undressed her and made her lie back on the bunk. I found her cunt already well prepared. Noreen had masturbated while waiting for my return from dinner and was thus well lubricated. Her speciality was to murmur sweet nothings as I rode in and out of her cunt. “I'd like to bath in your love−juice!” she panted, writhing her hips hard upon me. “I'd like you to put a pint of it into me!” She ran on in this manner, moaning to have my marrow−sized phallus harrying her cunt. Then it was a cucumber, and I was invited to make Noreen have the cucumber up her bottom. In short, no other girl of my acquaintance was ever so lewd in words of love, however polite in public! The effect of this was to excite me greatly and precipitate the deluge. The last thing I wanted was to beget a child upon Noreen and the facilities for douching were few. I withdrew at the last moment and experienced that pang of loss when one merely shoots onto a girl's belly. Perhaps it was this dissatisfaction which woke me as the train jolted through the landscape of the veldt before dawn. I roused Noreen, seeing the bell shape of dark hair about her face in the faint light. She wore only her pale blue singlet. I turned her on her belly, admiring the trim shape of her thighs and the firm, well−made cheeks of Noreen's backside. I entered her cunt from the rear this time, so that I might use my hands to put her nipples to another test, to fondle her belly and explore the sensitivity of her clitoris. My lust still drove me powerfully, and again, I would not risk spending in her cunt. This time I withdrew my cock at the signal of danger and laid it between Noreen's firm full bottom−cheeks, pressing the cheeks upon it as I rode without entering her again. My spasm came very copiously, flooding with sperm the valley between Noreen's buttocks. After a little I moved away from her and she stood up. With her back to me, she took a sheet of tissue and wiped herself. A man does not like to see the proofs of his passion wiped away thus, even from Noreen's posterior. “Did you prefer being wetted there rather than on your belly, Noreen?” I asked. “No,” she said, “but you liked it better. I don't mind.” The flighty young wench, I thought! She took two more tissues and leant forward a little as she continued. I knew that Noreen was deliberately trying to excite me by performing her ablutions in this way—showing me how amply I had bedewed and bespangled her! The armoured train with its Maxim guns mounted on flatcars, each carriage plated like an armadillo, bumped over the tracks into Pietermaritzburg. In this frontier town with its railroad depot, water tower, and lines of army tents, we lodged the companions of our. night's amusements. Next day, we rode for Ladysmith. CHAPTER NINE 48 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Do you imagine us passing through a scene of pitched battles, “where the ranks are rolled in vapour and the winds are laid with sound?” Not a bit of it. That brushwood landscape with its sharp limestone hills was empty and hot as a desert. In this war the danger was not from a regiment of the enemy. Death came like the sting of an insect, a bullet fired from the scrub of the veldt, striking down the victim before he could even hear the crack of the rifle. In our pith helmets, khaki drill, and British officers' puttees, we were like ducks in a shooting gallery. It was the chance of war whether we should be aimed at or not. On the second day, just before sunset, we flashed our glass down at the tents and buildings of Ladysmith five miles distant. There was an answering flicker. That night, on the bed of a mountainous road called Corporal's Nek, a challenge was given and the password, “Ubique!” received. Our emissary from Sir George White, commander of the Ladysmith garrison, was a young major of the Staff Corps escorted by a corporal of horse. We spoke briefly and rapidly. Every moment's delay increased the peril of discovery, even by darkness. There, on that bitterly cold hillside, we drew our flasks and toasted, “God save the Queen!” Then he, with the coded despatches from Durban, rode back to the beleaguered town. We, with the papers he entrusted to us, turned our horses again towards Pietermaritzburg. We had been lucky—this time. I joined the armoured train for the night return to Durban with a feeling of one reprieved from death. There was nothing I would not do now, while time remained to me. Noreen had little sleep that night, for my demands were frequent. Wearing only her singlet, naked from her waist to her toes, she lay back upon the bunk. As my prick stirred up her cunt vigorously, I gazed down at the firm fair−skinned face framed by dark brown hair. Her grimaces of pleasure, the rictus of repeated ecstasy as I ploughed in and out, excited me in turn. I drew up the singlet and bit her stiffened nipples, as she begged me. I made her turn on her belly and rode in between her legs from that new angle. Needing to spend, as she lay on her belly, I withdrew and laid my hands on the white statuesque cheeks of Noreen's backside. Then, with sudden unpremeditated randiness I reached out and took my stick of shaving soap. I daubed it with spittle, pressed Noreen's buttocks apart and eased the narrow end of the soap stick just in and out of her anus, anointing her with its slipperiness. The young slut lay tense and still, perhaps a little frightened but not protesting. She shook the dark hair from her face and looked round at me. Her brown eyes and strong pale features were impassive. “Ever had a penis in your bottom before, Noreen?” I asked. “No!” She seemed more embarrassed by the question than the act! “Ever tried to imagine being made to have it? Ever wondered what it would be like?” “Yes,” she said, after some confused hesitation. “You're well made for it in that area, Noreen.” I stroked her pale sturdy buttocks gently. Laughingly I described how men liked to watch her working on all fours in the saddler's window. The stout leather waist belt. The seat of the pale blue jeans strained tight over her strong buttocks. The central seam drawn taut as a hawser, deep into Noreen's bottom−crack and under her legs. As I spoke, the shaving stick made love to Noreen's bum. Then I was ready. “You're going to get it now, Noreen,” I said. “Raise your hips!” She did so. The head of my prick was further swollen in expectation, however. As it touched Noreen's anus, she gasped and tensed. CHAPTER NINE 49 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Don't tighten your bum against the knob, Noreen! Open yourself and take it deep into your behind!” For a sturdily hipped wench of twenty it was an ordeal but not an insupportable one. Noreen caught her breath as my knob at last widened its way into her arse. Then I slid in easily, causing her only a soft sound of alarm when she felt how deeply I threaded her. You listen aghast? What an unspeakable bounder is Charlie De Vane, you say! Would you strike me from the regimental roll and post me at the club? First let me plead my case. I acted on impulse, excited by the wondrous thought of spending in the girl's body with no risk of pumping up her belly. If that will not do, may I cite the example of Mr. Miles and his young mistress, Elaine? Are such pleasures unknown territory to you? I take your word as a gentleman that they are! Let me say, then, that the next half hour was most agreeable. It was doubly exciting for me. I was able to spend freely without fear of giving Noreen a swollen belly. Moreover, she was a strong girl of twenty with an exquisitely tight rear−dimple. My love−piston rode in and out of the tight sheath of Noreen's bottom with strong rhythmic strokes. At the same time I twiddled her nipples, tickled her cunt and played with tongues in her mouth. My kisses smothered her little sounds of alarm. At first she showed a girl's natural unease at this form of love. Then she resigned herself even to the deeper thrusts which passion demanded. After some while her hips began to stir, Noreen's buttocks tensing and slackening in obedience to my own rhythm. Cynics will aver that she did this only to end the ravishing of her behind more quickly. If so, it was a stratagem which played her false. Yet the soap stick's intrusion and my tool's deep plunges may have stimulated less exalted needs in Noreen than the passions of pure love. The movements of her rump grew more hurried, whatever the motive. At last the time came for me to ride to a climax. I was uneasily aware that a chance voyeur would find me as absurd as Mr. Miles now. “Lie still, Noreen!” I gasped, judging this safest. “You're a strong enough girl to take it hard for several minutes and then enjoy the reward of feeling love's slippery gruel squirting in your behind!” I made her turn her face to me, its firm pale features framed by the level fringe of collar−length dark brown hair. Delightedly I watched my hard sinewy tool plunging and pulling in the widened ring of Noreen's anus, pumping and sucking like an engine's thrust. A man's cries of passion are not the greatest literature. Yet, as a gesture to truth, I record the remembered echoes of mine. “You're going to get it in your bottom now, No!” I panted. “Reach back and spread your hind cheeks even harder! I want to squirt so deep that your heart jumps with fright and excitement!” I steadied her with a hand on either side of her hips and I buggered Noreen vigorously. Her thighs squirmed under me as a single jet burst deep inside her rear. I held on and rode a moment longer. “Much more to come, Noreen!” I whispered. “I'd like to pump two quarts of hot love into that strapping young backside of yours! Enough to give you a nine−month belly−swell here and now!” The sperm seethed in my bollocks. I shot salvo after salvo of slippery lust into the depths of Noreen's strong young bottom. “Noreen!” I cried. “Delicious, adorable young trollop! Ah, Noreen!” CHAPTER NINE 50 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane We lay exhausted. With tiny movements she tried to squeeze me out. The effect was to bring a slowly renewed stiffness. As Noreen felt me hardening again in her behind, alarm filled her brown eyes. She asked a moment's absence but I could not withdraw from her! “Lie still with me inside your rear, Noreen,” I said. “Try and calm yourself. Later on you'll feel the movements begin again and I shall make love in your bottom once more. Lie quietly and wait for it.” I was wrong. It was not once more but three times before I withdrew from Noreen's rump! My brain was mad as my prick that night with this new pleasure. I made Noreen sleep on her belly, singlet pulled high. I woke her at three, needing her bottom once more, and again at five. As we approached Durban, we were both in the little wash cubicle. Noreen in singlet was just pulling up the briefs she wore under riding jeans. I closed the door quickly and locked us in. “Don't pull your pants up yet, Noreen! Kneel on all fours over the toilet pedestal. Once more before your soreness is more than your excitement! The soap stick first. Alas, when the passion is over, we shall both have nothing but tenderness to remember it by!” Journey's end! But let me say that I soon spied on the saddler's when Noreen on all fours was polishing the floor of the window case. Several clerical and military gentlemen passed by. Each paused to admire Noreen's backside in tight riding jeans, glancing round first to ensure no one saw them. Did their thoughts truly differ from mine? I think not! CHAPTER TEN Leisure and lechery—Return to Ladysmith!—Jennifer Khan —An Asian Venus!—Robbery by night!—The last of Jack Tremaine—Grief for a gallant friend—Taken prisoner by the Boers—To be shot as a spy—I am saved by my enemy THE EVENTS I must now describe were the most dramatic and stirring of my whole life. They illustrate the truth that a man who allows himself to be besotted by a woman will come to disaster. All men acknowledge the truth—yet few care to profit by it. For two weeks in Durban, I took Noreen into my further employment. Driven to madness by the pleasures I had found with her, I scoured her cunt regularly every evening. Yet the culmination of this was that I spent with my rod deeply sheathed in Noreen's backside. At last I found that, morning and night, I was beginning to use Noreen's bottom exclusively. Here was a fault, and a habit to be broken. I was sure that Noreen, however graceless in her general conduct, had seduced me into this by design to exercise some power over me. When we were ordered a second time with despatches to Ladysmith, I proposed to Jack that we should exchange partners for the trip. He would enjoy Noreen on the journey and I should make free with his young woman. “What an old lecher you have become, Charlie!” he said. “Not but what it ain't a prime idea for this once.” So it happened that I found myself a second time in the sleeping cabin of the night train to Pietermaritzburg. My companion this time was the delicious Jennifer Khan, whose brief acquaintance you will have made upon our first meeting. Do you recall this tawny−skinned beauty of nineteen with her passionate almond eyes, a sheen of black hair combed to lie in a pretty tangle on her back? Your memory would certainly revive at the sight of her CHAPTER TEN 51 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane appealing young figure, the slight fullness of her voluptuous hips. I found her waiting for me, dressed as when you saw her first. The tight cotton of her breast halter moulded a pair of fine young half−globes. Jennifer Khan's knickers were once again tight stretched briefs of matching white cotton. The shape of these pants held a promise of what was to come. At the front, where the white cotton was drawn into a narrow triangle between her legs, Jennifer's pubic mound with its dark hair swelled full and brave. She turned for me to admire her rear view. Above her tawny thighs, the seat of the knickers was cut high and brief. The stretched cotton laid bare the lower fatness of the olive−skinned cheeks of Jennifer Khan's bottom. In all, the white cotton made an exciting contrast with her warm−toned skin. Did I have designs upon her? Say rather that she had designs upon me. How do you imagine she served my fine old malt whisky? She brought the glass soon enough. Then unclipping her halter, she offered her bare breasts to my mouth as I sat there. She tipped the glass skilfully so that the precious golden liquid ran down, wetting her bosom slope and gathering in droplets on her mauve−coloured Asian nipples. Scotsmen the world over may cry out at such sacrilege—I was enchanted. My tongue licked at her nipples eagerly and moved in swathes over the resilient youthfulness of her breasts. No girl's bosom was ever so thoroughly and lovingly licked. Her nipples hardened to unripe berries. She was reaping a reward. More whisky was poured. Did I imagine it or was there a certain creamy taste in its warmth? “Take your pants down, Jennifer,” I whispered, “and let me taste your more secret flavours.” She bared her cunt and backside at once. Yet ere we went further in our game, she took hot spice in her mouth and chewed it well, reminding me of Miss Jolly's preparations with Susan Ann during our night at the Albany. Then my tawny−skinned, nineteen−year−old goddess knelt before me and took my penis in her mouth. She did not suck it but, rather, worked her tongue round and round its knob. The effect upon me was prodigious, for the well−spiced saliva had the most exciting heat and irritation. I truly felt the swelling organ, as amateurs of music describe it. Yet still we had not done. Now, as I lay on my back, she knelt astride my face. I looked up at Jenny's dark−haired cunt−lips, the light gold satin of her plump inner thighs. She tipped the glass of fine old malt so that the spirit ran down between her legs from the front. The droplets must have stung—albeit agreeably—as they gathered now on her clitoris and vaginal pouch. I sucked my Indian beauty's cunt gently and for a long time. The golden elixir gathered a fresh tang, like seaweed taste, from between her legs. I loved her with my tongue and the hot−blooded beauty gave cries as of exquisite torment. Maddened by pleasure, she lifted her hips and went forward. I was now presented with the voluptuous olive−skinned cheeks of Jennifer Khan's bottom. The glass tilted on the base of her spine and soon I was laving the last of the brew from those butter−smooth mounds, tasting in it a hint of warm humid scents where it ran between her buttocks. In our present mood even such extremes of behaviour seemed unexceptional. I turned her on her back. So swollen with excitement was my tool that even when I threaded her cunt it seemed like a hand going into a glove that was a size too small. She did not protest. On the contrary, she cried out in her joy at feeling the bulk of it and the stinging excitement of the spice in which it was bathed. I did not intend to spend within her—I swear it. Little as I wished to swell Noreen's belly, still less did I propose to inflict such harm on one of Jack's own girls! I quite intended to turn her over presently, lay my prick in her bottom−crack and flood with warm sperm that gully of Jennifer Khan's backside. CHAPTER TEN 52 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Turn on your belly, Jennifer,” I gasped. “I must scour your delicious young cunt from the rear. When the moment comes, I will draw out, lay my tool between your bum cheeks, and flood you there where it can do you no harm!” She cried out in protest now and hugged me to her, begging to have the orgasm spent in her womb. Truly, the Asian Venus would not let me go! The dark eyes above her high cheekbones were full of passion and beseeching. My love−juice was too precious to her for it to be squandered, she vowed. Worse than any fear for her belly was for her to lie, achingly bereft of the penis at the climax, to feel only the pulse of the slippery gruel as it deluged her behind. So it was that I capitulated, thinking at the same time how far preferable was this hot−tempered mistress to Noreen, the trollop! I spent copiously crying out to her to ride harder and take it deeper, deeper still. Without withdrawing, my tool stiffened almost at once, and I enjoyed her twice more before we fell asleep with my prick still inside her. She woke me at dawn and begged, not in vain, for a repetition! I will not weary you with an account of the ride which Jack and I made to the Tugela Heights on the first stage of our ill−fated journey. It resembled with tedious exactitude that earlier crossing of the veldt which I have already described. I was not aware at any time that spyglasses were upon us or that we passed before the muzzles of the Boer snipers. With what seemed like perfect ease, we trained our heliograph for a few seconds on the beleaguered township below at the appointed time and were answered by a flicker within the minute. It was so brief that the Boer columns would scarcely discern if it was their own patrol, rather than we, who caused the shimmer, or whether it was merely strong sun upon window glass. Again we met the young major by dark at Corporal's Nek. Papers were exchanged, a loyal toast drunk, and he asked us what news there might be of the advance of the Natal Relief Force. I was able to tell him that Sir Redvers Buller and the field force were almost at Colenso, supported by the guns of the Naval Brigade drawn ashore for the purpose. At length we turned and rode away again, seeking to make the best of darkness and come to a resting place before dawn. Hot as the days are in that place, the nights have a sharp chill such as one finds in arid regions. We rested at dawn, then rode again. This country was, indeed, No Man's Land. You might meet a Boer column or a mounted patrol of our own side. It was a hundred times more likely that you would not set eyes upon a living soul. There were widely scattered farmsteads, of course. Yet most of the occupants had locked their doors, shuttered their windows, and retired south for the duration of hostilities. It was, I suppose, Boer territory, but you would not, except by long chance or design, meet the foe. There was a farm we came to as a rule on the first night of our journey out, and on the last night of our return. It had clearly been the property of one of the Boers of northern Natal—to judge by the name Utrecht upon its gate. It was now deserted and we invariably slept in the barn, stabling our horses there and taking advantage of soft straw. We reasoned that even if a passing rider should inspect the farmhouse, he would scarcely visit the barn during darkness. So exhausted were we on these occasions that we slept deeply and a barrage of artillery would not serve to rouse us. We did not keep watches, for to tell the truth, we were too exhausted and it was a million−to−one odds that anybody would come near us. When we woke next morning, the safety of our lines was no more than forty miles off. We were very nearly safe again and in good spirits. It was then that I heard Jack say something which seemed absurd rather than menacing. CHAPTER TEN 53 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Stop a bit!” he said, standing where he had folded his tunic and breeches. “I'm damned if these are my clothes!” “I'll be damned if these are mine either!” I said suddenly, picking up what should have been my outer uniform. Here was a mystery and yet a nonsense! Someone had entered the barn while we slept and substituted for our uniforms the strong waterproof cape, broad−brimmed hats, and worsted suiting of the Boers, for our British officers' uniforms! The pockets still contained our own papers as well as certain scraps which were clearly the property of other men. “Who the devil can have done this?” I asked Jack. “And why?” My first fear was that the enemy had stolen two British uniforms and proposed to use them in dishonourable warfare. Why, then, had we not been killed or made prisoner? Why were we provided with these rather ill−fitting clothes? The despatch was still safe in Jack's saddlebag, so that could scarcely have been the object of the strange night visit. “Charlie, old fellow,” said Jack at length, “there ain't but one thing for it. We must put on these togs, ride like the blazes for Pietermaritzburg, and hope that we shan't be shot out of the saddle by our own picket line in mistake for Boers!” He was right, as always. We scrambled into the ill−cut suiting, chaffing one another about what pretty Boers we should make. Then Jack went to the barn door and peered through the crack. “Hold hard,” he whispered. “There's a chap with a rifle down at the gate. Two more. One at the farm door as well. It's got a ripe smell about it, old chum. I'd say we're surrounded here.” “Boers?” I asked. But there was no mistaking that, with the abundant whiskers and the faces browned by sun and wind. The mystery of the clothes was as obscure as ever, yet we still had the despatch from Ladysmith. “It's long odds, Charlie,” said Jack presently, “though it may work. We must jump now before they close in, which they'll do soon. Saddle up and mount in here. We'll ride out together through the big doorway. Don't go for the gate. You can clear four foot of palings on horseback. So can I. Peel off to either side. Ride southeast while I ride southwest. Don't stop for dear life and see if one if us mayn't get through.” It was, indeed, our last faint hope. At Jack's suggestion, we opened the sealed despatch and memorised its chief contents. These were mainly a resume of the food and ammunition still remaining in the besieged township. We dared not risk letting the Boers discover how desperate was the position in Ladysmith. The very baggage horses and dogs in the street were now eaten as food. With such details in our minds, we burnt the papers. Now, I daresay you may be a stouter chap in the face of danger than I was. I hope so indeed. As we mounted behind that barn door, I confess my heart was beating high as my throat. We enjoyed the advantage of surprise—but for how long? CHAPTER TEN 54 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Crash! went the barn door, as Jack drove it back. “Go, Charlie, go!” he cried. And so we did. The breeze tore at my face, sending the soft hat skimming away. My horse's hooves thundered on the hard earth of the yard. I touched the reins, tapped the poor beast's quarters, and Moonbeam (as she was called) rose into the air and over the fence. A skid and a slither as she landed. Then we were off like the devil. I looked for Jack and saw the distance between us growing as we followed our divergent routes. My brave friend was deliberately leading off the greater part of the mounted pursuit. I saw him on a ridge of the veldt, riding like a champion against the morning sky. There was a crack! of the first rifle shots behind us. With my head low over the horse's neck I put the spurs to its flanks and hoped wildly that I could elude my pursuers before long. It was forty miles to Pietermaritzburg. I remembered a narrow wooden bridge across a tributary of the Tugela. There was cover beyond it. If I could hold the lead for five miles—twenty minutes—I might cross the bridge, cut the ropes which held its wooden slats in place, and halt my pursuers for half an hour. I would try it. At that moment, I turned to catch a glimpse of Jack on the line of the ridge. The rules were cracking like dry tinder in the fire. Even as I looked, I heard a fusillade and saw my comrade throw himself back in his saddle. Jack was down arid dead! Shock and grief for my friend now dulled my own sense of peril. It was not my own safety but obedience to orders which kept me galloping ahead of my pursuers. Do you think I should have turned back to where Jack lay? Should I dismount and fight to the death over my friend's body? Would you have done so? Perhaps you are right. Yet I saw him go down, and I thought only of what it might still be in my power to do for the poor devils in Ladysmith. I rode straight as an arrow for the little bridge. I am no great horseman, and you may find it hard to credit that I kept a lead on my pursuers for so long. Yet desperation lent me wings. I saw at last the brown river bank and the narrow crossing, its wooden slats suspended by stout ropes. Now I might be safe. I was almost upon it before I saw the two men on foot, each with a rifle, who stepped from the stunted trees by the bank and blocked my path. I rode hard at them but they sighted their rifles upon me and stood shoulder to shoulder across the opening of the bridge. My horse reared and I fell—or rather slid—backward over the poor animal's hindquarters. My captors were around me at once. I was hoisted to my feet—none too gently—and my hands roped harshly behind my back. They shouted at me in a language which was, I suppose, Dutch or Afrikaans, and glared mighty ferociously. I was driven with rifle butts to a horse and hoisted into the saddle—its rider doubling up on the mount of a comrade. Then the slow, sad procession began to my place of imprisonment. It was dark by the time that we arrived at a Boer settlement, well within their own safe territory. It was, I guessed, a sort of barracks or depot, with its own commandant, buildings, and courtyard. What was it before the war, I wondered? If you had seen it, you might have supposed it a prison in earnest, and not been far wrong. They left me in a room which was bare enough, though it had a wooden chair and a small ill−made table. A guard stood at the locked door, watching me, and the window was newly secured by iron bars. I tried to speak to the fellow, but he shrugged, as if to indicate that he could not speak English—and would not, even if he could. An oil lamp was lit in the doorway. Some bean soup and coarse loaf were given me—the only kindness I had so far merited. I was ravenous and consumed them eagerly, thinking that it was but a few days since Jack and I had relished the finest dishes and most noble wines that money could buy. Jack! I thought of him again and CHAPTER TEN 55 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane shed a manly tear. When I had eaten, a tall Boer officer with a fine black beard came in, a sword in his belt. I rose to speak to him, presuming he would understand English. He pushed me full in the chest and sent me sprawling back into the wooden chair. “I am Captain Charles De Vane of the Royal Sussex Regiment!” I exclaimed angrily. “And I shall be obh'ged, sir, for being shown the courtesies due to my rank as a soldier!” “You are a spy,” he said in a voice of guttural contempt, “and the only courtesy you will receive here is a rope about your neck when the sun rises tomorrow!” I was certain I could explain my predicament, and yet the more I tried the worse it sounded. “Captain Tremaine and I were riding back from delivering a despatch to Ladysmith,” I blurted out, saying nothing of the despatch we carried back again. “Why are you dressed in the clothes of a Boer commando?” “Ah,” says I, “while we slept our uniforms were stolen and we found these clothes there in their place.” (Ask yourself, would you have believed a fellow who told such a story?) “Why are there letters and possessions belonging to other men—men of my nation!—in the pockets of your clothes?” “They were put there,” I said bravely, “while we slept.” (Would you have believed this either? Could there be a more feeble reply?) “You were English spies!” he exclaimed, almost spitting at me with the force of his words. “Volunteers for dangerous service, no doubt! Brave young officers! You are not so to me. To be found with the possessions of the innocent Boers you murdered stuffed in your pockets! My disgust for you is inexpressible!” “You are mistaken!” I gasped. “You are truly in error, sir!” He spoke as if he had not heard me. “It grieves me that the laws of civilised warfare oblige us to bring you before a military tribunal tonight before you can be hanged in the morning!” “We were tricked!” I exclaimed beseechingly. “Our uniforms were stolen and we were made to appear as if we had been spies!” “Absurd!” he said, turning on his heel. “What would it profit any person to do such a thing?” To tell you the truth, that was the very same question which I had begun to ponder for myself. For an hour or more I was left to my thoughts, none of them greatly agreeable to me. With Jack gone I had no witness to my story. Though if they did not believe me, it was scarcely probable that they would have believed in his innocence either. Such was my frame of mind when the door was opened again and two rough−looking men of the Boer commando arrived to escort me to the “tribunal” which the officer had mentioned. CHAPTER TEN 56 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Europe had seen nothing like this since the Middle Ages, I thought, the midnight court where men were condemned without appeal and put summarily to death within the hour. The scene was no more than an ordinary barrack room with stone floor and bare walls, lit by two rows of oil lamps. At the far end sat three Boer officers at a plain wooden table, facing me. A chair was provided for me before them, and the two men with rifles stood guard at my back. Here in this lamplit place the issue of my life or death was to be decided, the odds being distinctly in favour of the latter! Had you sat where I did, before the three grave officers of the tribunal in their beards and Boer jackets, you would not have been greatly reassured. Above me the room was crossed by a stout wooden beam into which a large iron hook had been set. On the floor, to one side of me, a length of substantial rope lay coiled. To add to my miseries I now realised that after my condemnation I was not to be sprung through a modern trap. Here was the “good old way” of hanging a man, where the poor wretch struggled for life in the noose. What could I do but tell my story again to the tribunal? Lame as it was, I had no other! They listened solemnly and without interruption, giving me a patient hearing. Had they understood my honesty? It almost seemed so from the sage nodding of heads and one or two sympathetic questions. How illusory was this hope to prove! They withdrew to an adjoining room and conferred together for less than ten minutes. Returning, they sat at the table again and the senior officer began to deliver judgement. “We have attended with the greatest care to the evidence of the accused, Charles De Vane, and leant as far as justice will permit to an acceptance of his story. Yet we cannot believe that his account is consistent with either honour or logic.” There was much more of this, which I heard as if in a daze. My heart quickened with fear only when I heard the culmination of the judgement. “We conclude that the prisoner and his companion, John Tremaine, were spies. Perhaps they were murderers of innocent Boer farmers. For this, the laws of civilized warfare provide but one penalty. We accordingly sentence Charles De Vane . . .” As I rose to my feet to receive sentence, there was a strong brave voice from behind me. It was guttural as all their accents seemed, yet it was made to be obeyed. “Jack Tremaine was no spy!” I looked round and saw the man I was soon to know as Commandant Paulus. He was so far senior to the three officers of the tribunal that they rose to salute before him. He walked slowly forward and addressed us all. “Captain Tremaine,” he said quietly, “was a British officer and a man of honour! He was my friend when he was a young subaltern of eighteen, and he would be my friend if he were here now!” What could this mean? I knew Jack well enough to be sure that there were no Afrikaners among his cronies in town or country. With the next words the scales fell from my eyes. “Twenty years ago,” said Paulus, “our two armies fought. There was a terrible battle at Majuba Hill, where young Jack Tremaine was wounded. He had fought until the guns of our men well−nigh silenced his own. Then, in great pain, he crawled out among the bullets, bringing succour to the wounded of friend and foe alike. I was one of those to whom he brought such aid. When the war was done and he lay in hospital recovering from his wound, I felt it a debt of honour to visit that noble and gallant young officer before he returned to England. I am one of a dozen Boers who owe their lives to him. Gentlemen, Jack Tremaine was no mean spy nor cowardly murderer. Listen to Captain De Vane's story again and—for all our sakes—consider that what he tells you is true!” CHAPTER TEN 57 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Here was a turn of events! The tribunal were quite overcome now and postponed all further sentencing until Commandant Paulus had concluded his business. I began to think that I might live to see the sun rise and set on the following day. I breathed again and savoured richly the life which had so nearly been choked from me in a hempen collar! Commandant Paulus took me to his quarters and heard my story again. But why should anyone choose to make us seem spies? “Mark my word, sir,” he said, “this is revenge. A woman's trick!” A woman! There were enough to be sure. Yet why revenge? And why in such a manner? Who would have been the better for our deaths? I said as much to the commandant. “We shall know the answer,” he replied, “when she is brought in.” “Then your patrols must be quick, sir,” said I, “for she—if it is a woman—will be far away otherwise.” “Our patrols have been out since this morning,” he chuckled, “and she will get nowhere! As for it being a woman, I may tell you now that it was a woman—well muffled—who told one of our officers that the two spies who used Utrecht farm were concealed in the barn again.” Commandant Paulus's vigilance was absolute. Whoever had done such harm to Jack and I had grievously underestimated the wits and tenacity of this fine Boer officer. Next day I was told that a young woman had indeed been brought in. They caught her at one of the little bridges as she tried to cross the river towards Pietermaritzburg. Though mounted on horseback, the girl was no match for them. I was taken into the commandant's office where she was held. Whom do you suppose it could be that would have betrayed Jack and I to a shameful death? Miss Jolly? Susan Ann? Demure young Judith or pretty Jane? Lesley with her urchin−cropped arrogance? Passionate Jennifer Khan? What will you say when I tell you? There in her singlet and tight, pale blue riding jeans stood twenty−year−old Noreen! True, she had yielded easily to Jack and I—too easily, perhaps. Yet what possible advantage could there be to her if we should be hanged by the Boers? There was more to this than appeared even now. Noreen stood there in silence, the lank brown hair with its fringe framing her firm pale features, the indifference in her brown eyes. “We will coax the truth from you, Noreen,” said Paulus, “be sure of that!” CHAPTER ELEVEN Noreen put to the question—The truth at last—Lesley's treachery and its motive—We spare her neck but condemn her backside—She is made ready for an exemplary whipping—Lesley under the lash—The destiny of Lesley and Noreen—An Arab trader from Portuguese Africa—To harem bondage! ARE YOU an amiable, tenderhearted fellow who would rather read of happiness in fiction than witness the dire reality of fact? If so, perhaps you had best turn at once to the next chapter. For now I must speak of war's severities as they apply to women. I make no apology for this. Better a thousand times that truth be known CHAPTER ELEVEN 58 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane than that men and women remain ignorant of the horrors of war! Next morning Noreen still refused to admit her part in a plot. I could see she was torn between dread of her fate if the truth were told and fear of what must happen if she refused to speak. Yet time grew short if the main conspirators were to be found. Paulus would tolerate Noreen's silence no longer. At noon two troopers led her into the barrack yard. She still wore the pale blue riding jeans and white singlet in which they had captured her. They led her to where a large wagon wheel had been fixed on its side in the centre of the yard. What would they do to her? They pushed her to her knees at the wheel and drew her forward facedown over its diameter. Her ankles were strapped together to the rim of the wheel on one side. With her arms at full stretch before her, her wrists were strapped wide apart to the opposite rim. The large central hub was under her loins, raising her hips and seat. As we stood over her, she turned her face determinedly towards us. The dark brown hair, though it still lay in a fringe on her forehead, had been gathered back in a collar−length ponytail, revealing her firm young profile very clearly. The eyes of the two troopers dwelt on that rear view by which the young saddle dresser had entranced so many admiring gentlemen in Durban! Once more, in her present posture, the pale blue denim of the jeans was drumskin taut over the two robust swellings of her buttocks. Again the stout central seam of the seat was drawn tight and deep between Noreen's bottom−cheeks, the lower fatness almost closing over it as it was strained under her legs and between the pouchy lips of her vagina. One trooper knelt and undid the brown leather belt at her waist. He pushed the jeans, with her pants inside them, down to the girl's ankles. Did he suspect that Noreen might try to combat her ordeal by squeezing her love−lips between her thighs as Miss Jolly once did? He took a stout log, a foot long and six niches thick. He wedged this lengthwise between Noreen's bare legs, just above her knees, until it touched the earth beneath her. Though her ankles were strapped together, the protruding log braced her knees and thighs apart a little. Still kneeling there, he surveyed the back of her legs, the mossed pudenda between them. His gaze roved over her buttocks and the dark cleft dividing them. Her present posture laid this open. He bowed his head, kissed one cheek of Noreen's seat, and wiped his mouth humorously. Leaning forward, he whispered something in her ear and the other trooper, who heard it, laughed. The second trooper now marched off to the men's privy, unbuttoning himself. He was away for several minutes and returned carrying a three−foot cord whip with a wooden handle. The cord had been well soaked to increase its effect. The one who had joked with Noreen was a drummer who now took up his tambour and sticks. Paulus had made no attempt to question Noreen further. The drummer struck up a roll. Noreen looked back at us in great alarm for she had expected a last chance to reply to the questions before this. Would your heart have been melted by the agitation in her brown eyes if you had endured my recent agonies? She would have murdered me—with her accomplices! I stared at her coldly. The second trooper tantalised her. He allowed the wet cord to trail over her pale rear globes, down between the cheeks of Noreen's backside, and over her legs. She tightened instinctively at the menace. Tepid drips fell on her rump as he pulled her singlet up. Paulus lodged an inch thickness of india rubber between Noreen's teeth, fastened there for the protection of her own teeth and lips in her frenzy. The trooper spoke into the girl's ear. Every window overlooking the yard CHAPTER ELEVEN 59 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane was crowded. Native servant boys at the gate fumbled their loincloths as Noreen looked at them with shocked eyes. The trooper's arm went back. Whipcord flashed across the two bare swellings of Noreen's seat. Her brown eyes went wide, her mouth distended in a wild cry, inaudible over the drumming. The whip searched Noreen's arse repeatedly with its sinuous torment. The full pale globes of Noreen's bottom rounded and writhed as the long interlaced streaks of crimson appeared. The whipcord curled and clung cruelly to her rounding and surging buttocks. Her mouth was stretched, one long muted cry of agony merging with the next. The whip marked the rear of her firm thighs, even the backs of her knees. Yet it was Noreen's backside which blushed reddest. Now he concentrated the whipping on the fatness of Noreen's lower buttocks. Though a strongly built girl, it was in vain that she wrenched at the straps holding her. The robust cheeks of Noreen's rump rode as if on a saddle of fire, then: fatness jumping and quivering at each impact of the lash. The trooper paused to survey his handiwork. Now the worst came. He aimed the cord tail of the whip repeatedly so that it curled wickedly in between the cheeks of Noreen's bottom. Frantically, she tried to close herself against it. Instead, she clenched her sturdy buttocks on the whipcord whistling between them. It was as if Noreen's bottom−cheeks had closed on a red−hot razor. In that moment she bit right through the thick wedge of india−rubber. She did not again dare to defy the aim of the trooper's whip. I was delighted by her ordeal, for she was the murderess of my best friend. Now, I confess such barbarous sentiments shame me. But cannot you understand them? At last the ten minutes were over. The drumming stopped and Noreen's screams subsided to sobs. Paulus spoke to her, gently but solemnly. “Now you must choose, Noreen. Corporal Kruger is impassioned by you and asks me to abandon you to him. If I agree, he will whip you soundly until you are skinned as a tomato from the back of your waist to your knees. Even between your buttocks and thighs. You would cry out at a breath of wind upon those parts. Strapped on the wheel as you are, he would have you laid above a nest of wild hornets in the maize field. He proposes to spread your whipped buttocks with honey, wiping it well between your legs and rear−cheeks. With a long pole he intends to stir the hornet nest to fury and leave you to their savage caresses until sunset. He asks to be ordered out of earshot, lest his heart should soften at your cries.” Looking round aghast, Noreen saw that Kruger and the others were grinning at her with anticipation. “That is the price of your silence,” said Paulus gently. “I confess I almost hope you will continue to be obstinate for I should like to see you undergo such a last ordeal.” “Let me tell you!” she screamed. “Please! Have pity!” He motioned the rest of us away and listened to her story. I heard nothing except his concluding words to her. “Very well, Noreen. If you have told us the truth, I will release you from the wheel when we have proof. If you have played false, Corporal Kruger shall have his wish!” In justice to Paulus I must say that he never intended the barbarity which he threatened. Yet Noreen's backside could not be whipped indefinitely, and he judged it more humane to terrify the truth from her now that she had tasted punishment. He gave commands in his own language. To me he would only say, “We know her hiding place. You shall see soon enough.” CHAPTER ELEVEN 60 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Within an hour the mounted patrol returned, leading their captive on horseback. From the window of the commandant's office I saw the figure in the equestrian trouser suit of thin black cotton. I gazed at the urchin−crop of straight fair hair which shaped the high crown of her head. I surveyed the firm erotic maturity of the young wife's figure. I knew it was Lesley. What possible motive had she for designing the destruction of Jack and I? While Jack lived, she enjoyed the comforts of the villa and no end of good things. Was it pure hatred of him? Why, then, had I to be destroyed too? “Captain De Vane,” said Commandant Paulus gently, when I expressed my bewilderment in these terms, “will you treat me as if I were your friend in this? I am indeed your friend, for the sake of Jack Tremaine. Will you tell me everything?” Do you think me wrong in agreeing to this? It seemed the best thing at the time. I told him all the story of our affairs with the young women at Durban, leaving out the more bawdy details. “So, then,” he said at length, “you and my poor friend Jack stand guardians to the girls whom Madame Lesley has in her care?” “Indeed,” says I, “for I have told you so.” “You are both unmarried, have no children of your own, and in your case at least have never made a will.” “Quite so.” “Do you not know,” he said quietly, “what would have happened if you and Jack Tremaine had both perished? Do you not know that dominion law would give your estates to your wards, which is as good as giving them to Lesley herself?” I sat dumbfounded before him. “And though you may have spent every penny,” he continued, “do you not know that insurance upon your lives must go the same way? Is it not possible that some other party—she herself—may have taken a policy to benefit by your deaths.” “Damme!” I said faintly. “And had you not come to save my neck, the villains would have succeeded without a question asked!” Now the truth was out! Jack and I had been taken as gulls, like a pair of yokels by Haymarket whores! Blessings on our friend Commandant Paulus, I thought. Noreen perhaps had no share in the fortune but would have been well paid for her work. How easy it was! They need follow us only for a day—or send a hireling to do the business. Once our lodging in the barn was known to them—had we even boasted of it ourselves in Durban?—they lay in wait. Boer clothes, easily come by, were substituted for our own. Word was passed to the commando that two British spies were concealed there. We were seized, and after lying hidden for a short period, Lesley and her young slut Noreen rode back to claim their inheritance. Jack and I were listed as killed in action. Not a soul, apart from the two young whores, would ever know that they had crossed the Tugela. “Let them both be hanged!” I cried, meaning every word. CHAPTER ELEVEN 61 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Paulus shook his head. “They have done nothing that we should hang them for, though you might on your side,” he said. “Yet I will see justice done. They must not return to Durban for they will claim Jack's estate.” “What would you do?” I asked furiously. “Nothing that the world shall know of.” Paulus smiled. “I shall order a whipping for Lesley that may bring her equal to Noreen. Then they shall go a place where the world will know them no more.” “You mean to put them to death?” “No,” said he. “They may even be put to great pleasure if their taste lies in such directions!” He would say no more for the time being. That afternoon I witnessed the retribution which was exacted from Lesley, with every justification. Paulus asked me her story. I told him that I knew only of her marriage, the abandoning of husband and children, the promiscuous arrogance of an educated and emancipated young woman. “Be sure,” he said, “Lesley is a whore in her heart. We know how to deal with such faithless young wives here!” The afternoon was devoted to her punishment, which would never appear in any official record. Paulus knew of a prison−farm guardian, Muller, who would be more than willing to come and carry out the discipline. Muller was notorious for throwing prison−farm boys of thirteen or fourteen over his study sofa with their breeches down and bambooing their behinds viciously. In Lesley's case he was confronted by a twenty−eight−year−old woman who, despite her boyishly cropped hair and long thighs, offered the hips and backside of a trim young Amazon. A fierce vindictive excitement burnt in his eyes. Muller, in company with two Boer women, took Lesley into a wash house on the ground floor at about two o'clock. When told of the punishment to be given her, the promiscuous young wife had simply looked back at Paulus with cold contempt in her blue eyes and in the sulky line of her firm mouth and jaw. Now, through the half open door, I heard the commands given her. “Take off your trouser suit,” said one of the women sharply, “both parts of it! At once!” A light movement of cloth, twice repeated, suggested Lesley's compliance. “Good,” said Muller. “Now, you may keep your stockings and suspender belt on, your breast halter as well. But take your underpants right off.” “No!” It was a cry of outraged dignity from the young woman. There was the wrestling gasp of a struggle. A rubber heel squeaked. A snap of elastic was followed by the whisper of tight silk slithering over smooth pale flesh. “Hold her a moment,” said Muller. CHAPTER ELEVEN 62 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Four times a strong hand exploded in a powerful smack on Lesley's buttocks. She caught her breath without crying aloud. “You shall learn obedience!” he swore. “The arrogance shall be chastised from you!” It was one of the women who spoke to her next. “Touch your toes now, Lesley,” she said gently. “Tighter than that. Tighter still. Good. Now stay bending.” A strong odour of liquid soap lay on the warm air. A glass pencil−shaped squirt rattled in a bottle and drew up slippery fluid. “No!” Lesley's cry betrayed despair rather than anger. “Oh, no!” “Don't tense your buttocks, Lesley!” said Muller. “And bend right over!” Lelsey gasped at the deep intrusion of the pencil shape. I heard the rhythmic squeeze of rubber and a muffled squirting. Lesley gave a half sob and there was the soapy suction of withdrawal from her rear. Now came the kissing sound of glossily stockinged legs crossing urgently, one knee jammed into the back of the other in an effort of self−control as she bent. Ten more times the slim glass dipper rattled in the bottle, followed by the slippery intrusion, squeezed rubber, and the soapy withdrawal. Lesley gasped, stirring with restless urgency. “Bend her tight,” said the second matron, “your arm firmly round her waist!” A china bowl rattled as it was lifted from a table. “The rim against the back of her thighs as she bends,” said the other woman. “High up. Just under the curve of her backside.” “Oh, not like this!” wailed Lesley in her little girl voice. “Not in front of you! Please!” “Would you rather do it while you're being thrashed, Lesley?” asked Muller quietly. “In front of ten times as many people?” “Don't keep us waiting, Lesley!” said the first woman, as if reprimanding a ten−year−old schoolgirl. A sharp bottom−smack rang out, then another and another. . . . These were the impacts of a slow spanking to be continued until Lesley did what she had to do upon the orders of her gaolers. Such was the fate of this emancipated young wife, as she bent gasping and with legs squirming. Soon the stimulus of liquid soap and the spanking was irresistible. Lesley gave a soft cry of capitulation. There followed a series of most unladylike sounds for a minute or two. Remembering her treachery, I would not spare her this humiliation. The punishment was to be in an upstairs room. Soon the wash house door opened, Lesley followed closely out and up the stairs by Muller. But what a change was here! The bitch walked with head bowed like a well−scolded child. Under the parted fringe of her fair urchin−crop the blue eyes appeared clouded with dismay and the sulky mouth was turned down forlornly. The firm, self−possessed features of her pale face were almost hidden by the dejected casting down of her glance. CHAPTER ELEVEN 63 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane They had, after all, allowed her to keep on the short white singlet which ended at her waist. Below that she wore only the honey−toned gloss of stockings to mid thigh and the white elastic arch of her suspender belt. From the front she thus showed us her long trim legs and the triangle of fair pubic hair in her loins, the slight proud curve of her belly. The singlet shaped her fine resilient breasts. Now she turned and began, crestfallen, to mount the stairs ahead of her chastiser. I had never, of course, seen Lesley so far undressed before. Muller's eyes too were dwelling on the rear view of her long graceful legs. In his case, no doubt, he gave closer attention to the shape of Lesley's seat, the slight and firm filling out of its pale cheeks, which testified to her experience of marriage and childbearing several years before. Those full pale moons of Lesley's bottom rounded and swayed before him while she went up the stairs. Following her, his face was level with her hips. At twelve inches distance he gloated over the way the cheeks of Lesley's backside arched and contorted rhythmically as she climbed, touching and parting lightly with a glistening whisper of unwiped soap. The white elastic arch of her suspender belt and its straps, aided by the stocking tops at mid thigh, perfectly framed the area of his interest. His mouth rounded with an intake of breath as he glimpsed Lesley's tight rear−dimple and the light−haired pouch of her cunt peeping between the rear of her thighs. His tongue passed repeatedly over his lips, dry with excitement. At the end of the top corridor stood the appointed room. Its heavy horsehair sofa, arranged in the centre of the floor, reminded me of James Miles's love−couch. Lesley, with her urchin−crop and trimly shaped body, was ordered to kneel upon the sofa, facing the heavy scroll at its end, and then to kneel very tightly forward over the rounded padding of its horsehair. “Bend even further, Lesley,” said one of the prison matrons impatiently. “Show your behind more fully spread. That's better. Now, your wrists tight against the sofa legs while I strap them to the frame!” Muller watched, adding his own instructions to the two matrons. “For her own sake, she should be more tightly strapped down at her waist and above her knees. After a few minutes of the cane, Lesley will be frantic to shield her bottom. She will try to turn on her hip. If that is allowed, the bamboo will mark her flanks quite severely. It will be kinder to strap her down very firmly on her belly and make it impossible for her to attempt that subterfuge.” The pliant straining of leather confirmed that his commands were being carried out. Presently he spoke again. “Pull the hem of her singlet higher, so that Lesley's backside is properly bare. Tuck it under the waist strap. She will writhe quite vigorously during the punishment. If the hem is not secure, it will work down and lie across Lesley's arse−cheeks. That must not happen.” His words were dry and precise as a teacher's, concealing his excitement, which the rest of us now shared. Lesley was strapped down kneeling very tightly forward over the padded horsehair scroll. She could tense and squirm a little but no more than that. Muller chose a long slum bamboo with a spring like a rapier. He surveyed her rear view, which she now presented to us all. The firm pale moons of her buttocks were pulled hard apart. The two or three fine light hairs which grew near her anus had been pasted by the moist soapiness against the smooth, yellowed ivory tone of the skin between the cheeks of Lesley's bottom. The urchin−crop of fair hair, shaped to her head with its parted fringe, was turned as the blue eyes and sulky mouth showed us her dismay. As if out of curiosity, Muller's finger stroked a stray soap−wet hair between Lesley's buttocks, and she flinched instinctively from this sardonic handling. He spoke quietly. “It will help you to bear your punishment, Lesley, if you make up your mind to it. Forget your lovers, your marriage and children. Forget even your womanhood. To us you are now no different from a prison−farm boy sentenced to the severest possible thrashing. Pretend to yourself that you are one. Then you will not expect pity.” CHAPTER ELEVEN 64 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane I saw a pulse in her throat, beating faster with alarm. Yet Hans Muller knew that such anticipation was the most telling form of discipline. She must wait like this for an hour, if he chose. As the moments of silence passed, I noticed the most trivial things, the suspender straps straining like harness down her flanks, the elastic imprint of the knickers she had just taken off still arching up over each cheek of Lesley's behind. Muller flexed the bamboo and cut the air with a trial swish. The young wife's buttocks tightened with instinctive fear. The clock on the wall stood at quarter to three. Muller looked down at the young woman with an expression of anxious concern. He seemed uneasy lest some adjustment of straps had been neglected which would have made Lesley curve more tightly over, thus pulling her buttocks more firmly apart and showing her rear view to us more fully. She turned her high−crowned urchin−crop, facing him with trembling anger. “Do it!” she gasped. “Get it over with!” “An adulteress must show herself first, Lesley,” he said softly. “Is that not the custom? You'll lie bottom−upwards over the scroll and consider your faithlessness to marriage and love. Never fear, at three o'clock you will be soundly thrashed.” Much as she dreaded punishment, the waiting was an anguish. “Do it now, if you must, you brute!” She feigned contempt. He stroked her parted fringe gently, showing no anger. “Ever had the prison cane before, Lesley?” “Of course not!” Uncertainty now mingled with her resentment. “Wait till you've been thrashed beyond endurance with it,” he said quietly. “The second time it happens, you'll bite your tongue off rather than answer back to the man who will whip you!” “You brute!” she repeated, but it was a forlorn voice now. Muller looked down at her, though he spoke to us. “Where she will go soon, they do not use these school disciplines! They will punish her as Noreen was punished—with whipcord. How vulnerable she will be when they strap her down in this posture!” Where was Lesley going? I had no idea. One of the matrons spoke. “It will be hard for her. She has been so spoilt and selfish, so promiscuous and wilful. Arabs enjoy punishing a faithless wife, however far in the past her infidelities may be. And how they will be excited by a young woman who prefers her hair like a boy's!” Did these words terrify our young “adulteress,” as Muller called her? Her face was hidden, but the crown of short−cut fair hair was bowed in dejection. What did she think of as the clock's hands moved? Her marriage or children? Her lovers? Herself. The last was certain! Three o'clock came. The firmly rounded moons of Lesley's bottom must have itched with fearful anticipation as Muller approached. She made a soft little sound. The sofa scroll creaked under her restless hips. Her CHAPTER ELEVEN 65 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane bum−cheeks shifted and tensed uncontrollably. “You have butterflies in your tummy, Lesley?” said Muller in his lightly accented voice. “That is good. I feel your pulse racing and your heart pounding! Excitement of fear has the same symptoms as the excitement of waiting for your lover. Now we have you in the mood for a whipping. The waiting for pain or pleasure grows unbearable.” He measured the bamboo lightly across her buttocks. Lesley's glossily stockinged legs whispered together in agitation. The sofa springs murmured under her knees. She shook her long fringe clear, arrogance and self−possession fading from her aloof blue eyes. Muller raised the cane. The clock ticked eight times. He lashed the bamboo down with a whiplike report across the taut pale cheeks of Lesley's bottom. Her gasp became a cry as the torment swelled. Again and again the vicious bamboo strokes made the walls ring. Lesley screamed in frenzy, her buttocks writhing cheek to cheek as the cane branded its stripes across them. Muller was visibly excited by the slight erotic fattening which her two pregnancies had given to the seat of this quite tall urchin−cropped young wife! With cruel accuracy he caned repeatedly across the lingering smart of earlier strokes. Lesley protested in long shrieks and uncontrolled weeping. He answered her coolly as a teacher tanning a girl of ten or twelve. “Your discipline won't end this afternoon, Lesley. To enforce the punishment lesson I shall ensure that the weals on your bottom are painful for several days. You will learn better that way!” In his strong hand the cane whipped smartingly across Lesley's spread seat. The straps allowed her only to squirm her legs together, dig her knees into the sofa, and tense her bare rear−cheeks. She screamed not to be caned anymore. She begged even a moment's pause. She implored the bamboo on her legs to spare her bottom. Sometimes the switch went wide, indeed, marking the backs of Lesley's thighs above her stocking tops. Having crisscrossed her buttocks, Muller's aim now sought the soft undercurve of Lesley's pale bum−cheeks. He soon mastered her educated arrogance. To answer her entreaties, the supple cane thrashed Lesley's behind, impersonal and pitiless. Where the bamboo's brand rose on her buttocks, he revisited that place. When the cane crossed an earlier stripe, a ruby droplet often welled up, trickling down her seat. This was common in prison−farm canings. Yet Lesley shrieked in panic, as well as pain, when she felt it. Her fright came from knowing how much Mullet must enjoy punishing a young wife of twenty−eight, so firmly mature in figure. She knew, as we did, that he would take Lesley far beyond the limit of caning for a prison−farm boy. Imagine the effect of this on a spoilt and selfish young woman! Tight−lipped, he now caned aslant the swollen stripes on Lesley's buttocks. The matrons chided her appeals to them. “You're not a little girl of twelve, Lesley! Bend tighter and take your punishment properly! You were eager enough for eight years of your husband's penis! Several lovers! The labour pains of childbirth twice! Don't pretend you can't bear a farm−boy's caning on your bottom! I only wish your own kids could watch you getting it!” “Besides,” said the other, “you cut your hair almost short as a boy. So you're asking to be caned like a boy. Don't blame the man for being over−excited because you've got a young woman's bottom!” Muller grinned at the matrons. He now tanned the lower swell of Lesley's backside and her upper thighs. Her crimsoned buttocks contorted. Her cries made the walls ring with names of husband or lovers. CHAPTER ELEVEN 66 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane The open door was crowded with African and Afrikaner men and women. Pretty girls smiled knowingly at Lesley during her thrashing. She was the enemy. Her race had killed their sweethearts and brothers. These girls delighted in her suffering. Under the relentless caning, Lesley's buttocks arched and contorted over the sofa scroll as if in lewd invitation, though her blue eyes brimming with tears belied this. Yet her squirming displeased Muller. “Pull her further forward over the scroll!” he said to the matrons, as he breathed hard with exertion. “Her head right down and her backside facing up. She must learn total obedience under punishment!” A wild cry broke from the young wife as the stalwart matrons pulled her forward and tightly refastened the straps. She was now literally bottom−upwards over the scroll. They also made her wear a “persuader.” This consisted of a strap, about an inch wide, which a prison matron now attached to the back of the waist belt holding Lesley down. The woman then drew the strap tightly down between Lesley's buttocks, under her legs, and up her belly to fasten firmly on the front of the waist belt. Where the strap ran between Lesley's bum−cheeks, a row of needlelike points projected on either side. So long as she lay quite still, her buttocks stretched wide, the needle points touched the inner edges of Lesley's bottom moons lightly. But the moment she squirmed or tensed her backside, she received a piercing reminder. Lesley was to be in this predicament for the rest of the caning. The African women met her forlorn appeal with open−mouthed delight. In the excitement the trousers of their menfolk bulged at the front. This pleased the women too, assuring them of a good time afterwards! The advantage of having Lesley right over the sofa scroll was that Muller could now bring the cane down vertically on her arse. In this last ordeal, the young wife tensed her buttocks twice before she could check herself. She repented shrilly, her mouth and eyes wide, and also learnt not to writhe her seat. Stroke after stroke the full pale cheeks of Lesley's bottom were thrashed—and thrashed—and thrashed! At last Muller laid down the cane. He performed a last necessary act of hygiene and punishment. He took melted salt in each palm and cupped his hands over Lesley's bum−cheeks. For ten minutes he seemed deaf to her cries as he massaged the salt into her buttocks. He stood back. The globes of Lesley's twenty−eight−year−old bottom shone wet and blazing from the scorching smart of salted rawness. The matrons withdrew, the door was locked against us. Muller was left alone with Lesley until he had finished with her. Next morning two disreputable−looking traders from Portuguese territory arrived. They spoke of Arab dhows, of a coastal trade in slave girls for the harems of wealthy pashas. Instead of being hanged, Lesley and Noreen would be consigned to lifelong harem bondage. It answered well, for they could hardly be set free after what had happened. I took one trader to Lesley's cell. Last night, after punishment, she had given vent to a storm of weeping. Now she lay quietly, facedown on the mattress. She could not yet endure the touch of tight silk panties and her seat was still bare. The bamboo prints were swollen and deeper in colour across her backside. Forlorn and still a little tearful, the arrogant young woman was softened into a girl−child, anxious to be loved again after naughtiness and spanking. The trader sat on the bed and spoke gently. “It is good that you have been caned, Lesley. A lesson in obedience may save you a whipping where you are going. Soon you will be sold to a harem slavery. Relax now. My finger must enter between your legs. Tighten on it as if it were your husband on your honeymoon.” CHAPTER ELEVEN 67 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane He slid the finger in. The muscles of her thighs and buttocks contracted rhythmically. Presently he withdrew. “Good,” he said. “But no husband taught you so well! You have had a lover, I think! Now in your arse−hole, Lesley. You hide your face? That hole was made for man's pleasure too. Ah, you are still exquisitely tight there! We shall find a man who will pay highly because he prefers that. I feared your lovers might have spoilt you there!” Lesley's mouth opened in a wail of despair. “A word of advice!” The trader stroked her fringe gently. “When your master desires your behind—as he wilt—submit adoringly. You refuse? He will not ask again. A dozen of his grooms will take you that way by force. The last of them will cane you as you were caned yesterday. You remain defiant? The pasha will weary of you. In the end you will be stripped by his two butchers. They will bind you down, slit your belly first and your throat an hour later. That is the pashas' way. Be sensible. Accept what must be and live in ease.” He continued to examine her, though knowing she would easily fetch his price where white−skinned young women are coveted. “She was married eight years,” I explained, “bore two babies. Then she abandoned her duty to them at the call of a lover.” “In the harem they will cure adulterous notions with the lash,” he said impassively, noting the fright in Lesley's eyes. Like the matrons, he spoke of pashas who used a young woman's behind like a boy's. Lesley's cropped fair hair would spice such pleasures. Both traders were satisfied. That night Paulus entertained them to dinner in his room. We retired to bed replete with homely Dutch cheese and hams washed down by honest beer. Next day the two traders departed, taking Lesley and Noreen. Now it was my own turn to make my way back to Pietermaritzburg. “I should like,” said I, “to see where the body of my good friend Jack Tremaine lies buried.” They took me out and showed me the rough wooden cross over his grave in the stony soil of the veldt. I shed a manly tear and turned away. Mercy for Lesley and Noreen? Did they show it to him? My horse was saddled and my laissez−passer from Paulus was in my pocket. I came back to the Tugela and to my own commanders. You may guess I was received with reproval and contempt, as I will show. Was I vindictive in relishing the punishment of Lesley and Noreen? You think so? Suppose a she−devil were to kill the person you hold dearest and attempt your own life too. Would you feel that a whipping or a boys' prison caning was sufficient penalty? You see, then, you would not! Time passes and now my vindictiveness shames me. Believe me, though, it did not do so then! CHAPTER TWELVE My return to Durban—A failed mission—Sole guardian of our six girls—The problem of Judith—The labyrinth of Lesbos —I shelter Judith in my arms and in my bed— Months of bliss with a mistress of sixteen—Orders received—I am to escort my pretty wards to Egypt, en route for England WHAT CAN I tell you of my return to Durban? I came back bowed down still with the loss of Jack. As for Lesley and Noreen, my friend Commandant Paulus had told the Red Cross League a bold story of their deaths in the shooting which had killed Jack. No one on our side would ever look for the two young women who CHAPTER TWELVE 68 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane now languished in harem slavery. What of myself? I was marked down as the man who had taken a young whore like Lesley to comfort him on active service! I had lost my uniform and the despatch from Ladysmith. As the sunlit days passed in Durban, I began to think that I had only escaped hanging in order to be court−martialled and shot by my own people. I was cut by most of the men who knew me before. The saddler was furious that he had lost Noreen, whose appearances while dressing his windows had drawn so much custom. Susan Ann and Car' Jolly seemed distant from me. What was left for me to do? I resolved that I would at least set my girls free from the house of correction where they quivered under the rod of James Miles. The pitiless whipping of Lesley, at twenty−eight years old, had given me a horror of such barbarism. Apart from Judith, the other five girls were still lodged with Master Miles. So I visited him to collect my five young ladies. It was a particular relief to rescue fourteen−year−old Jane, my new ward, from this fate. Sally, an engaging and pretty urchin of the same age, was scarcely known to me. Yet Elaine filled me with misgivings. From what I had seen of her she might plunge our little household into bitter strife. The last two girls, Linda and Sandra, I could not even recall seeing before, though I must have done so. I first noticed a sly, sensuous little blonde, a soft pale beauty of fourteen. A short mane of fair hair was worn forward on her lapel. Like the others she was dressed in a white blouse with tie, and a uniform skirt cut high on her legs. She was sniggering furtively with some other girls as the master summoned her. “Name and room?” he rapped out. “Linda Jennings, sir,” she lisped. “Room 3B.” He made her stand there, hands clasped behind her back. His eye next fell upon a girl of fifteen, a slightly stocky tomboy with an appealing and innocent quality. Her brown hair was worn loose and lank to her shoulders. Though her skin was a little muddy, her blue eyes showed ready courtesy and a quick smile. She pulled up a white knee sock which had slipped down, and skipped forward obediently at her master's summons. “Sandra Williams, sir,” she said. “Room 5A.” I knew that she, at least, would be my ally in our life together. So I passed the weeks at Durban with my six wards, Susan Ann and Miss Jolly in attendance, and without a command or instruction from Sir Hamilton Scott at the General Staff Detachment. I was, you see, “under a cloud.” They thought me a fellow it was best to be rid of, and yet they had not so far made up their minds how they would accomplish this! It was a vexing time, even in affairs of the heart. My girls were too old to be treated as infants, while being at the same time too young to be enjoyed as women. To enclose so many members of the female sex in a house—with only one man—soon leads to little jealousies or spites and high−strung tantrums. Yet I forbad the older women to use any punishment more severe than the rubber heel of a gymnasium shoe, for I remembered too well the ordeals of Noreen and Lesley. Tell me truthfully. Do you imagine me vigorously housing my penis night after night in the cunts of girls of fourteen or fifteen? You will not believe me, I daresay, but you are quite wrong! I found myself cast in the role of an elderly duenna defending the honour of six innocent girls against determined ravishers. CHAPTER TWELVE 69 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Ah−ha, you say to yourself! His house was surrounded by sporty young subalterns and blotched old majors with an eye for pretty horseflesh! I assure you, there was nothing of the kind. The honour of Judith and the other young maidens stood in danger at the hands of lascivious young women. Yes, indeed. Women! There was always the threat of Car' Jolly, even of Susan Ann, as their thighs and love−nests ached for the attention of a man. Nor must you forget the hot−blooded passion of Jennifer Khan. She had no part in the plot against Jack and me, but had returned obediently to the villa after our disappearance. Let me describe the situation to you, and then you must consider how you would have dealt with it. Judith, at sixteen, was a demure young woman and most in danger. For all her shyness and grace, she had a woman's needs. Sandra, of course, was an appealing young hoyden of fifteen whom many older women would be delighted to get their hands upon. Miss Jolly's eyes already coveted her. Among the three fourteen−year−olds, Jane alone retained an air of teasing innocence. Linda, our sensuous little blonde, had an eager sniggering relish for anything connected with the wiles of woman−land and the art of love. That Linda spent long hours of the night playing with herself seemed common knowledge. As for Sally, with the fan: curls of her page−style crop, there was an energy in her lithe sun−browned limbs which would readily seek release in the arms of a man or a woman. You must remember that I was the only man among three young women and six mere girls. I could not, even if I chose, be the lover of them all. What then was I to do if the most vicious lesbian vices were to be avoided? As a man of sense, I am sure you will guess the answer. Mens sana in corpore sano —healthy minds and healthy bodies, as they taught us at school. I would put my girls to honest toil so vigorously that they would have little energy to spare for other activities. The opportunities for athletic pursuits and hard labour abounded in our present situation. Linda and Sandra were despatched daily to tire their lungs and limbs on the running track. Sally was to be reduced to exhaustion by the exercises of the swimming bath. Judith must pedal with her long slim legs upon a fixed bicycle in the garden room. As for Elaine, she must lend her assistance to the gardener's boys—native lads of thirteen or fourteen—in the far corners of the spacious grounds. You approve? You congratulate me upon my wisdom? Alas, how wrong you will be proved! There lay in wait for me now calamity on all sides. How did it begin? I was well satisfied at first and my suspicions were unroused until I chanced one day to stroll to the remoter part of the garden. There, among the palm trees and pink gravel paths, I expected to find the gardener's boys hard at work. There was no one in sight. This puzzled me. I looked about and could still find neither the boys nor Elaine, who was a year or more their senior. You will, I daresay, recall that young madam—a sturdy insolent tomboy with her fair hair spread loose on her shoulders. I came presently to a small shed with a seat inside, a necessary provision in such an area. To one side of it stood a line of dark−skinned boys, waiting in turn. As I watched, another boy came out of the little shed, buttoning himself up. The next was so careless that he did not even bother to close the door of the hut when he had entered. In the shadows of that place, I saw him let his trousers down and sit upon the wooden seat. It was not this but the sudden sight of Elaine which took my breath away. She knelt before him wearing her white blouse, uniform tie, and the briefs of stretched white cotton. Tossing her fair hair back from the broad oval of her face, she took his young piddler in her hand and gently transferred it then from her hand to her mouth! Kneeling on all fours, she sucked him without any sign of repugnance or enthusiasm. It seemed a CHAPTER TWELVE 70 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane chore to which she was long accustomed! The waiting lads gazed excitedly upon her fifteen−year−old rump as she presented it, sturdily cheeked, in tight webbed cotton. When one of her young admirers implored her, Elaine opened her knees a little and tugged her knickers awkwardly down to mid thigh, without once ceasing to suck! The lad on the wooden seat went into a sudden spasm of joy. His head arched back, mouth and eyes wide open, hands clutching the wooden rim in frenzy. His lusty young prick pulsed in her mouth and the slatternly girl swallowed without compunction. Presently he made way for the next lad in the line, while Elaine sat back on her heels and waited. Here was a revelation! I had thought from her general bad conduct and loose morals that Elaine probably sucked off boys of her own age. But an orgy of such proportions under my own roof—as it were—could scarcely be permitted. As I watched, one of the first boys came back. “Want some more, Elaine?” he asked. She tossed her hair back and looked round from her kneeling posture with a vulgar leer—I cannot call it a smile. “Don't mind,” she said indifferently. “Up to you, isn't it?” What was I to do? What, indeed, would you have done? I gave orders to the gardener to prevent a repetition of this. Elaine was to work pulling the handcart of garden refuse up the path to the bonfire. To ensure that she never entered that wooden temple of love again, our robust young lady was to work standing between the shafts of the little cart with her wrists attached by leather cuffs to the shafts themselves on either side. However strict a moralist you may be, you cannot say I was at fault here, the gardener being a greybeard of almost sixty years old! I truly believe that no one can be blamed for what happened next. By some freak of misunderstanding, the nature of the harnessing—as I call it—was misunderstood. Two broad leather straps were secured across the two shafts of the little cart. Elaine stood with her back to the conveyance. She was obliged to bend tightly over the first strap, so that it ran under her lower belly. Her wrists and her leather collar were attached to the forward one. The gardener believed I intended this. The girl herself made no complaint, supposing that she was in danger of being returned to Mr. Miles! Put yourself in the gardener's place for a moment, and surely, you will see how easily the rest followed. Several times a day you must take your perch on that little cart of garden clippings for the half−hour climb to the bonfire patch. Consider the prospect as the robust adolescent lies over the strap, pulling forward. From the hem of her brief pleated skirt down to the tops of her white stockings at the knees, her pale sturdy thighs are bare. How long before you just must give a pat or two of encouragement on them? How long before your hands run up and down constantly, loving and stroking Elaine's bare legs? Be honest, now! How long after that before you decide that the grey pleated skirt is an encumbrance to her labours. It is easily undone, shed, and stepped out of. Now, in the stretched white cotton of her briefs you can hardly avoid noticing the telltale pouch of love−lips between her legs, the tomboy cheeks of Elaine's rump, her legs bare above the knees. Imagine several days of that view squirming and rolling in front of you. Can you avoid the thought that Elaine is fully fifteen years old and, after the reformatory, has little to be shy about! Ah, you say, how uncomfortably those stretched briefs gather in Elaine Cox's bottom−crack and under her legs as she toils in this heat! Surely CHAPTER TWELVE 71 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane she would be more comfortable without them? To make it worse, for her knickers are a twist of soaking cotton between bare broad rear−cheeks, Elaine tosses her hair and looks round with an impudent leer. “Enjoying the view?” she grins. “Like what you see? Show us how stiff you are, you duty old thing!” There must be equity, of course, as you work Elaine's knickers down and off, so in a moment you must unbutton yourself. There is an end of all pretence and hypocrisy. Half a mile from any other person you settle down to observe her. Is your hand tickling and squeezing her love−lips between her thighs as she strains forward? Is your other hand parting Blame's sturdy rump−cheeks to investigate their hot, close secrets? Do you gleefully present your stiffness to her lips? Are you outraged by her insolence? Does a bare−bottomed tomboy like Elaine Cox bending between the shafts impel you to choose a flexible length of prickly switch to reprimand her? Will she appear each evening as if she has sat down accidentally on a bramble thicket? Perhaps you would be content merely to admire the straining of her thighs and hips, the seductive rolling and squeezing of Elaine's bum−cheeks as she toils forward. Perhaps, at the worst, the streams of your passion flow over them and spangle her thighs. But, as you will admit, you would ruin my plans! Worse news was to come. After their exertions upon the athletic track, Sandra and Linda were lovingly massaged by a buxom lady of thirty—Jacqueline. So skilful was this wretch that both girls were heard to murmur and even cry out her name longingly in their sleep. What of Sally? At first all was well. The bath was confined to females and she was permitted to swim there in nothing but her dancing briefs and breast halter of tight grey cotton. Yet there was constant supervision, no risk of lesbian seduction. I was, of course, aware that she used some of the time to exchange lewd banter with girls of her age or smoke cigarettes on the sly. Yet, by her nature, Sally was proof against lesbian wiles. I watched her enter the water. Ah, Sally! That lithe sun−kissed figure of pale gold! Those cropped fair curls! The high−boned young face with its impish blue eyes! Here was safety at last! I watched her in the water—fourteen years old and nimble as a fish. She would tread for a while, then spring forward in a bathing somersault. Her head went down and the taut young curves of Sally Fenton's bottom broke the surface, the seat of her briefs streaming wet as the pelt of seal pup. It was some time before I made out the shape below the water which came and went from some submarine opening that connected the male and female baths! As it approached, Sally seemed to wriggle her briefs down under the water and open her slim gold thighs. She gave breathless cries as of exhaustion. The shape disappeared. When it returned, Sally's head went down and sought its loins. There was a spasm, an escape of something like frog−spawn in the water, which she gulped at greedily. Here, then, was an end of bathing! Exasperated, I returned her to Mr. Miles, who must impose what I lacked severity to inflict. With her knickers down, the sum cheeks of Sally Fenton's bottom were caned until blood was drawn. Well, you say, and what of Judith? Could harm come to her? A girl exercising on a fixed bicycle in a room by herself! There at least, I could be certain. Thinking so, I strolled along one afternoon to peep at her as she obeyed my instructions. This is what I saw. Judith had entered the room, tall and graceful. The veil of light brown hair framed that pale oval beauty of her face. Demurely as always she shed her green silk skirt and petticoats, stripping until she wore only her plum−coloured corset, lilac silk stockings, and the tight briefs of thin silk which replaced her knickers for this exercise. She arranged a pair of mirrors so that she could study her posture on the bicycle saddle and ensure the correct position. Then my sixteen−year−old beauty with her slim elegant legs straddled the leather prow and placed CHAPTER TWELVE 72 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane her lovely feet on the pedals. I could have kissed every inch of Judith's slim legs as they moved so easily at first. Her lips were lightly parted and she breathed easily. Her silk briefs were elastic tight, and I saw how the leather prow of the bicycle saddle pressed between her lusciously developed cunt−lips. How, I wonder, can a woman ride such a contraption and still keep her virtue? From the rear I observed the tight silk as it shaped the demure nymph−cheeks of Judith Terry's bottom, gently rounded by her efforts. She rode rather sedately, mouth open a little, sometimes shaking the fine brown hair back from her face. As the minutes passed, the effort seemed to increase for her. I saw her head bow a little and heard her breathing grow more laboured. She gave a gasping little cry, and I saw that her bare inner thighs seemed to be slipping wetly against the leather saddle peak. So she came forward from the saddle, bending astride with her feet on the pedals, and I saw that Judith's silk pants were soaking with perspiration and the proofs of her self−love. With one hand she freed herself, leg after leg, from her panties and dropped them on the floor. You will believe me, I know, when I tell you that I grew stiff as a guardsman at the sight. The pale demure ovals of Judith's bottom led down to her slim white thighs above her stockings and up again to the soft light brown thatch of her lower belly. The pink little sentinel of her clitoris peeped out charmingly as she arched herself on the saddle again. Now she rode desperately, crying out words of love, milking the leather prow between her legs, thrusting her behind out lewdly to get her cunt tighter on the saddle. She wept for her darling, her loved one, as she called him. There was a sudden crisis, a shuddering, a slipping from the saddle, and then bitter tears. I pride myself upon being a just man but tears could scarcely turn aside my indignation at what I witnessed. Do you think that hypocritical? I considered only that Judith was blighting her life by this—and I was furious that my plans had failed yet again. To cut the story short I burst open the door and seized the astonished maiden! She was still sobbing over her private frustration when I ordered her, stripped as she was, to lie on her belly over the roll of matting—and I sent to the stable for the pony lash! Have no fear, I did her no harm. Yet as I waited, I looked down at her sprawling there. The plum−colored corset arched high and seatless over the back of her waist, its silken frill just touching the upper cheeks of Judith's bum. What a fraud I felt as I strapped her stockinged legs together just above the knee! What moral absurdity as I “positioned” her with my own hands, touching the pale ovals of Judith's bottom−cheeks and being sure to peep between. The lash was brought. “Very well, Judith,” I said, trying to shield the bulge in my trousers. “I have never whipped a girl before. I promise you I shall enjoy whipping you for your disgusting and vicious conduct!” “I wish you may enjoy it!” she wept softly. “I would whip myself if I could! Whip my bottom as long as you like! Whip my legs too. Tie my legs apart and flog me between them!” Here was a to−do! Can you imagine a girl carrying on so? I confess I was unnerved. “No, Judith,” I said, endeavouring to sound calm and authoritarian, “I shall merely whip your backside until you confess to me the name of the lover you cry to in your solitary and unwholesome practices! I will find the wretch and deal with him as he deserves!” CHAPTER TWELVE 73 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Her weeping grew to a storm. “Oh, you fool!” sobbed my broken−hearted beauty. “You poor, foolish man! Did you not know it was you! From the moment I saw you first!” Here was a turnabout, by Jove! If you had heard her tone, you would never have doubted the truth of her vow! What was I to do! What would you have done? To be sure, I would not chastise her now. I sat down beside her and undid the strap. “May I break this wicked, loathesome whip in pieces,” I cried, “before it shall touch such beauty as yours!” I threw it from me as if it had been the most venomous of serpents. To make amends for my threatened barbarity, I kissed my sixteen−year−old Venus from head to toe—quite literally—and on all sides. Beginning at her toes, my lips caressed her delicate feet, the back of her slim calves, the hollows at the rear of her knees—all smooth and warm through the film of her silk stockings. Higher still, I reached the bare pallor of her trim thighs above her stocking tops and, for the first time, kissed her white satiny skin. At the back of her legs, where they joined, the sweetest love−pouch in the world peeped out just an inch. As it peeped so charmingly, my lips pouted too, kissing it lightly and repeatedly. “You won't be needing your knickers again this afternoon, Judith,” I said softly. “Shall you like that?” “Oh, yes,” she whispered, “very much!” My kisses travelled over the pale oval nymph−cheeks of Judith's bottom. Presently, as I reached her slim young shoulders, she turned impatiently and our mouths met in open conflict of tongues. Judith loosened her corset quickly and I licked teasingly at the prettiest pair of nipples I ever saw. Next I was kissing the taut milky smoothness of her belly, tonguing its little button. Then, at last, the light−haired triangle which leads to her firm young clitoris and luscious vaginal lips. A well−brought−up girl like Judith had never even imagined such ecstasy before. She cried out with joy as I played upon her cunt's little sentinel with my tongue and then plunged rhythmically in and out of her warm, moist depths. She learnt by instinct rather than instruction, for presently she cried out again. “Oh, I'm ready! I'm ready!” So she was! My phallus slipped into her, stretching the resilient opening of her young cunt. By instinct again, Judith spread her legs and bent her knees so that her heels rested lightly on the small of my back. I loved her with long easy strokes, feeling her tighten with the pleasure. She gave a faint cry, as if dismayed by the turbulence of her feelings. Her veil of light brown hair swept to one side as she turned her face away and hid it in her hands. Gently but firmly I drew the hands down and turned her face to me once more. “Modesty is no virtue here, my dearest!” I murmured. “You must learn to be shameless in love, Judith. Forget the lessons of your governess. Cry out for the penis when pleasure maddens you! Beg your lover to grow a second one, so that your mouth or your behind may be plagued at the same time!” Imagine the astonishment in the pale beauty of her features! Her feelings overcame her, even as I met her hazel eyes, and she cried out at me in her love and ecstasy. She had, of course, been well exercised already, yet it was still unexpected to me when her orgasm came first with a shuddering and then a soft embrace. To my consternation, I felt her begin to pull away from me, stiff as I still was! I could not bear to part with my beauty now! I need not have feared. Judith knew the state I was in. Pure gratitude spurred her to coax me on my back so that she might ride on top, saddled upon my erection. CHAPTER TWELVE 74 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Consider this, if you will, for you may soon be in that situation with the young nymph yourself. She lay on me for a moment and I was half blindfolded by her light brown hair. Her lips were at my ear and I could feel that her face was wet with tears of utter joy. Her hips began to ride slowly upon me. “My love!” she gasped. “Promise me, my love!” “Anything!” I panted. “But tell me what!” “If . . .” she hesitated, stopping and looking down at me with the hazel eyes which so illuminated the pale oval of her face. “Promise me that if ever I must be whipped, it will be by you! I could bear anything you did to me now. But never from another!” Had I truly been so pitiless with her a little while ago? I was so shocked by what she proposed that my stiffness nearly vanished. “Never!” I cried. “May my right hand wither before it shall stripe so lovely a form! And may the devil who seeks to do it in my place reckon with the honest weapon of an Englishman—a well−clenched fist. There, now!” What lovers we were! She begged me to do all manner of things to her as she rode. Taking the corona−corona tube from my pocket, I lubricated it, and she arched out her rump as if knowing and wanting my next act. Ah, what a rogue I was with my young mistress that afternoon! “Is that nice, Judith?” I asked breathlessly as her hazel eyes widened a little. “Yes,” she said, a little subdued, “I shall like anything if only you do it to me!” Could you have resisted such an appeal? I, at any rate, could not. Her words, as much as her movements, drove me quite wild. You are right—of course I should have withdrawn before it was too late. I did not. Indeed, I arched my hips to plunge deeper into Judith's cunt, and there I released such a pumping and a pulsing of molten passion as I never experienced before. There was a douche close at hand on this occasion, so we stood in no real danger of turning the girl into a young matron! For a moment she would not move, but lay there with her hair spread over me, my member held inside her, the slim tube peeping out saucily from between Judith's bum−cheeks. It took all my energy to represent to her the danger of remaining thus situated without taking urgent measures to prevent conception. “I shan't mind being made to have a baby even,” she said so sweetly, “as long as it's your baby!” How would you have dealt with this predicament? I was obliged to march her off by main force and to superintend the ablutions myself. It was first of many occasions during the next few months when we gasped out our naked passion together, on the gymnasium mat, in a locked bathroom, among the stable straw, on beds and sofas, over chairs and tables—wherever the opportunity occurred. It did not, of course, solve my problem with the other girls. Yet I confess that I underwent a change of heart on the matter of lesbian amours. I still deplored the vicious and heartless exploitation of a girl of fourteen or fifteen by a woman of twenty−five or thirty. I feared that an older woman would take a girl of fourteen like Sally or Linda and—jaded by her own burnt−out passions—might put the youngster through forms of lust as repugnant as the routines of the bidet or the lavabo. Yet what of innocent love between two young girls? That surely was another matter. By striving so hard to prevent even this, was I not in danger of leading them into worse depravities? I resolved, for the future, to take no further measures against such youthful affections. I CHAPTER TWELVE 75 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane would keep a close eye upon Miss Jolly, Susan Ann, and even tawny−skinned Jennifer, but my young nymphs might love as they pleased. Do you imagine me living in this agreeable manner ever afterwards in that delightful villa? It was not to be. You will remember that so far as the War Office was concerned, I was now a disgraced subaltern. There was no offence for which they could court−martial me, and yet I seemed like a man upon whom sentence had already been pronounced. Remember too that after a few months the course of the war had changed. Hostilities with the Boers were to last for a while, but England's victory was never in doubt. The rounding up of enemy stragglers and the pacification of the Transvaal was not a matter requiring the great army which had first been envisaged. To put it simply—I became superfluous. I was informed by an official letter that arrangements had been made to ship me home—along with my “dependents,” whom Lesley's supposed death had made my wards! The Horse Guards bitterly resented the expense of this—I had no doubt. They revenged themselves by informing me that I should be placed upon half−pay as soon as I reached England! Half−pay as soon as I reached England! Half−pay! Can you envisage what that means to a fellow like me? I had no other occupation, no other source of funds! I was not to be dismissed the service—of course not! They would tie me to them but they would halve my pay! I tell you I was desperate! A captain's half−pay condemns him to a life which looks mean as a whore's smile. The Royal Mail Steamer Aragon was to leave Port Natal for Suez in two weeks time. Oh, you may be sure they meant to send me home by the cheapest route! I and my wards and three “maidservants” were ordered to be on it. What hope had I? What chance of employment however menial? There were at that time offers made to men who had served in the war, proposing employment of one kind or another. Just before we left Durban for Suez, I was passed a circular. A ragged−arsed desert nomad, it seemed, Sheikh Atra Amani, sought the assistance of a British officer in training his rabble tribesmen. His emissary would be pleased to meet me and discuss the matter. Now you may be sure that I would rather starve in the gutters of Piccadilly than end with some Arab blackguard's knife between my ribs in a flea−bitten Eastern settlement. So there was an end of that. In any case, how could I possibly take such an offer with three young women and six girls aged between fourteen and sixteen? So it was that I went up the gangway of the RMS Aragon with my nine dependents, my remaining baggage, and a heart like lead! CHAPTER THIRTEEN Homeward bound—The voyage to Suez—Sandra, my cabin girl, and her assistant, Linda—Tropic afternoons—Egypt at last—An emissary from the sheikh—Sands of the desert YOU ARE, perhaps, a better sailor than I. Frankly, sea voyages have always filled me with inexpressible boredom. Oh, I daresay the food was ample and the wines passable. My stateroom—containing a bedroom, dressing room, and day saloon—was quite lavish enough for my needs. Yet there was no escaping the days of CHAPTER THIRTEEN 76 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane sweltering tedium as the screw went grinding round and the wake tapered away behind us across that hot glassy sea. The RMS Aragon seemed, indeed, listless as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. I will not disguise from you the anxiety I felt as the days passed. Little though I relished being a military majordomo to a desert sheikh, it was positively the only offer I had received. Does this surprise you? It should not. The General Staff had its way of ensuring that such fellows as I were outcast, even if they could not court−martial us. In the clubs and mess rooms, where the men of influence gathered, they would speak pityingly of me. “Ah, young Charlie De Vane!” they would say. “Old Gussie De Vane's youngest boy! Pity about him. Put up rather a black at Ladysmith, actually. Bad business that. Left his comrade to die and saved himself. There was a woman at the bottom of it all. What's that you say? Employ Charlie De Vane? Would that be wise? 'L.M.F.,' we wrote on his dossier—Lack of Moral Fibre. If you have a position for a first−rate young chap, however, I happen to know that Lord Grantchester's boy . . .” Yes, indeed. So we toiled onward through the Red Sea. Have you ever made that voyage? If so, perhaps you will appreciate the old British army saying, “The Red Sea is the arsehole of the world—and Suez is what you find when you get all the way up.” Pardon the vulgarity, but it was the way with old Indian soldiers. It was that time in every lunar month when Judith was temporarily unavailable to me. As a matter of fact, I always greeted the event with a certain sense of relief, knowing that for the moment I was spared the ordeal of paternity. Forgive me, I am sure you have sired some strapping sons and beautiful daughters of your own, but you will see how difficult such a thing would have made my life just then! I suppose it was the first or second night out, at dinner, when I became aware of the covetous glances which a handsome woman of forty was directing towards two of my girls. There was an invitation soon after, suggesting that the Misses Sandra and Linda might care to attend a lively supper party or two in the lady's cabin! This was just what I feared. Yet how could I prevent such a rendezvous without giving general offence? Some excuse must be made which would serve for the rest of the voyage. After all, a gentleman cannot approach such a lady, on the evidence of mere intuition, and accuse her outright of sapphic designs upon his wards. Believe me, I was inspired in my solution! I summoned Linda and Sandra, despatching them to the inner room from which they could not escape without walking through the other two rooms of my quarters. I then sent a kindly note to the handsome lady of forty, regretting that my two wards were quite indisposed— hinting at a contagious ailment—and were confined to the room. No visitors were permitted. The ship's surgeon was an amiable fellow and I assured him privately that this was nothing but a strategem. Be sure, I had no wish to find my entire party held in quarantine at Suez! On that first afternoon of their confinement, I went into the inner cabin. My two prisoners were not best pleased with the arrangement. Sandra, however, was her pleasant, obedient self. Do you recall Sandra, the captain of James Miles's room 5A? She was the slightly stocky young lady of fifteen, the lank brown hair in a shoulder−length page−style, the ready smile, and the politeness in her blue eyes. Linda, the sensuous little blonde of fourteen, a sniggering young minx, was to prove more difficult. I instructed them both to take off their grey pleated skirts and hand them to me. They were still amply covered in that heat with their white blouses and ties, knickers of stretched white cotton, suspender belt straps running down to black stocking tops at mid thigh. Such a costume ensured that they would not escape from the stateroom, even if they chose to do so. CHAPTER THIRTEEN 77 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane It was Linda who first suggested that “lessons” might help to pass the fortnight ahead. I was a little puzzled by this as she stood before me, the little mane of blonde hair pressed to her mouth as if to check a snigger. My eyes followed the soft pearly contours of her young figure. Linda explained that, in the recent fighting, she had been impressed by the horrors of the war and proposed to devote herself to the profession of a nurse. Yet her knowledge of human anatomy, a most basic requirement, was woefully deficient. Since we were to be alone together in such privacy, would it not be possible to educate her in this—particularly in the difference between men and women, which she found a topic of fascination? So it was that after lunch, the bright sun reflected from the sea. A playful bottom−smack urged Sandra to press one knee on the big table and to clamber up. She lay there on her back, waiting willingly for the demonstration. Linda stood over her watching, hands clasped excitedly between the bare pallor of her own thighs. Now, for Linda's benefit, I described the beauty of Sandra's face and blue eyes. We admired her mouth and tested the instinctive but as yet awkward responses of her lips to kissing. It was Linda who unbuttoned me and drew out my penis with such expertise as to suggest that she had done the same for boys of her own age. Sandra looked uncertain as I knelt astride her, but I reassured her. “Don't be shy, Sandra, your mouth was made to do this.” When she had sucked for a while, I withdrew. Now Linda lay beside Sandra in her turn, their mouths open and tongues at play. Then their lips joined fast and their tongues wrestled so that the girls' saliva flowed in common and they shared the tastes which ran in one another's mouths. I undid Sandra's breast halter and made Linda do the same. We examined the older girl's blossoming titties, noting the firmness of the nipples in her present excitement. Wicked young Linda Jennings—far the more randy of the two, though the younger—played with Sandra's tits and teased the nipples by tickling with her little mane of hair. Our hands ran over Sandra's midriff, while I mapped her belly button with my finger and explained to Linda how babies are born. Sandra was a good girl, who had never heard matters described in such detail before. Her blue eyes looked up wonderingly. Of course I reassured them that a man would not necessarily make her have a baby. He had only to draw out at the right moment and spend his lust on her belly or between Sandra's bottom−cheeks. Sandra lifted her hips obediently and slipped her panties down. What a feast of instruction was here! She complied at once when asked to pull her knees up to her breasts and show the spread of her thighs. One by one I numbered off, for Linda's benefit, the delightful features of love's terrain. First, I explained, there was Sandra's pert little clitoris, which was what she used most when playing with herself. Poor Sandra's face coloured a little at this, confessing that she was indeed guilty, though filled with remorse. I demonstrated to Linda how easily Sandra's love−lips might be stroked to produce milky pearls of passion. Then we inspected the mossy dell into which Sandra's husband—or perhaps a lover—would one day introduce his tool. Lastly I was careful to point out the quite separate place from which Sandra pissed. So many girls believe that both activities have the same location. Linda was all for seeing Sandra masturbated or, lying as she was, jetting a golden fountain−arc out of the porthole window! She was, I assure you, quite incorrigible! CHAPTER THIRTEEN 78 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Shall I tell you what I did? I allowed Sandra to sit astride my thighs, facing me with her arms clasped round my neck. Then I guided her on to the bolt−head of my prick and entered just an inch or two. In this pose, Linda was able to watch at close range exactly what was happening to her friend. I was careful not to thrust too deep and—indeed—I stopped Sandra's ride after a few minutes. How she hugged me in her gratitude even then. Now she lay on her tummy and I completed Linda's first lesson. Sandra's fifteen−year−old bottom had the pale robustness of such girls of her age and build. I showed Linda how seductive its shapes and movements were. Parting the cheeks, I showed the tight little bud made for woman's ease and man's pleasure—as the Arab saying is. As practice for her profession, I allowed Linda to fill the pencil squirt with soap solution and slide it up Sandra's bum. How easy it was to syringe her thus and ease the path of nature. Moreover, as the tube slid out, Sandra was well prepared for a gentle intrusion of the mere knob of the penis, so that Linda might watch this too. I made love in Sandra's behind very gently and shallowly for just a moment. Last of all, I mentioned that her bottom—by universal consent—was the place best shaped for chastisement. You cannot imagine I would whip her! It was at Linda's insistence and with Sandra's consent that I gave a mere six on each cheek with the heel of the gym shoe. I drew a chair up to that table on which my cabin girl Sandra lay, and began to kiss her all over. In a moment I turned to my sensuous little blonde who stood by. “Slip your knickers off, Linda, and kneel between my thighs. Whatever state I'm in is, truly, almost all your own fault. Show me that you can play your part too!” So Linda went down on her knees, rugging off her pants with great enthusiasm. She took the cock in her mouth, guiding it with skilful young hands, and gave suck most exquisitely. Had it been the most delicious lollipop, she could not have sighed more contentedly. Sandra's orgasm came as I nibbled her clitoris gently, and with that I jetted gout after gout, teased from me by Linda's agile young tongue, down the throat of my little blonde temptress. Dammit, you say, Charlie De Vane is a bounder! To use young Sandra in such a manner—and she only fifteen! Perhaps you are right. Yet consider this. She was already of marriageable age in most countries of the world—and would have been so in England a few weeks hence. Suppose I had restrained my desires for that brief space. What then? Why, we might have married without any impediment. Those who now condemn me would be winking and snorting at the fun we should have in bed—wishing I might roger her good and hard, pump her belly up at once with a brood of children. Would they care if I was a gentle lover—as I truly was? No. Sandra is sixteen—fit to be butchered by any oaf with a stiff prick so long as he has married her. Was I such a bounder, then? Or suppose she was still fifteen, yet I played the stern guardian. Off with her skirt, down with her knickers. Bend her over the desk and fetch the birch. A dozen or two strokes across Sandra Williams's bottom until the blood flows. Ah, what a fine figure of morality Charles De Vane, Esquire, is now! Excuse me, but I prefer my own ways after all! The rest of that voyage passed in such fun and games. Neither of my two cabin girls wore knickers again until we reached Suez. Morning, noon, and night I was greeted by the pleasant sight of pubic bushes or bottom−cheeks charmingly framed by the white arch of suspender belt and black stocking tops. While I was waited upon by the two girls in this inviting uniform, I assisted in curing Sandra of fears or shame and Linda of her sniggering prurience. In the afternoons they played the nursing game, the glass squirt entering Sandra's rear repeatedly—then Linda's—the functions of the female pudenda fully explored. As Linda's choice of profession wavered, there were spanking games, marking Sandra's bum−cheeks with the gym−shoe heel—in short all the capers which girls of their age get up to once their knickers are off. CHAPTER THIRTEEN 79 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane At night, I took over as master of ceremonies. Then it was that Sandra learnt to play with herself and never suffer remorse. Then, too, Linda learnt the ways of passion, which led her from prurience to womanhood. I do not know whether you will believe me, but I assure you that in instructing these two charming pupils I passed some of the most agreeable moments of my life. Thus it was that we came at last to Suez, the little town with its rough white walls and the shallow sloping tiled roofs which are the same almost everywhere from Marseille to Bombay. Our ship, the RMS Aragon, was to pass through the canal and so on to England by way of Gibraltar. Not so I and my nine young ladies. We were bidden farewell as we trailed down the gangway to the quayside, where British khaki mingled with the white robes and red fez of the Egyptians. Yes, you are right, as I knew you would be. I was weak, after all, unable to face the prospect of England and poverty. If I was such a bounder as you thought me a moment ago, it would not have mattered. Why, I need only have prostituted my nine young women on the streets of London—or sold them to appease the crapulous lusts of old roues! I hope it will stand to my credit that I chose instead to surrender my destiny—and theirs—to the ragged−arsed desert sheikh who wanted a broken−down subaltern as his chief of staff. I had intimated as much earlier. It was no surprise, then, when I was approached by a well−dressed Egyptian who appeared to speak both English and French fluently. We met there on the quayside. His name was Saleh. Such courtesy he had, assuring me that it was his master—not I—who was most honoured by my interest in this employment. I explained that I was not alone but had in tow—as it were—nine young women whose ages ranged from fourteen to twenty−five. Saleh bowed his head. “His Excellency the Sheikh Atra Amani is fully cognisant of your situation, effendi. He assures you, through me, that all hospitality shall be shown you. As a man of honour, he swears that your rights in your harem shall be respected, unless you choose to hold your women in common with his!” Suppose you had stood there on that quayside and heard such words from this smiling emissary. Would you not have thought it best to usher your women back up the gangway and sail straight on for England? Such, I confess, was my first instinct at so extraordinary a suggestion. Arabs do not hold harems in common. They are liable to cut the throat—or at least cut off the balls—of any man so audacious as to meddle with their girls. Why I went on, I do not really know. Call it despair, if you will. I thought, do you see, that if the worst came to the worst I would make the sheikh a present of my young women and see what I could do for myself. We entered three carriages for our desert journey. It lasted for some hours. Then we came to a little port where dhows with red sails lay in the harbour. (Forgive me for not giving you the precise geographical details. I trust you implicitly, but if this falls into other hands, I and my friend may be traced, which would prove the ruin of us both. What friend? You shall see.) Into one of these boats we stepped for a coastal voyage through blue North African sea. My honest belief was that we were all ten of us doomed. They would rob me, fuck the nine girls in every orifice, cut our throats, and drop the bodies overboard. Yet it did not happen. After a day and a night—or thereabouts—we came to a most capacious harbour where more carriages were waiting for us. There was no sign of the ragged−arsed sheikh. Yet the equipages were exceedingly smart and clearly belonged to a man of considerable prosperity. Suppose that the Sheikh Atra Amani was not a ragged−arsed desert hawk after all? The thought grew stronger in my mind. Was he perhaps the ruler of this state? Was I, after all, destined for high military rank? We drove for ten miles or so and then turned in through an ornamental gateway that would have graced the Palladian villas of Italy or—for that matter—some of the stately homes of England. CHAPTER THIRTEEN 80 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane What do you suppose lay ahead of me now? Forgive me, but I doubt if you could possibly guess. CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Villa Rosa—Nabyla, a proud Arabian beauty—My first enjoyment of her as a slave girl—The appearance of the Sheikh Atra Amani—My great joy in an old friend restored THE CARRIAGE wheels rolled on the pink gravel of the garden drive. All about us the Arabian flowers of brilliant red and yellow were in bloom. Palm trees stood in the warm stillness and the sharp spears of cypress rose in alleys and groves. It was a dream garden from A Thousand and One Nights. The villa too seemed grand enough with square white corner towers in the Spanish design. When the carriage halted at the main door, I was received by a parade of native servants who bowed me in. The hall was set with stools and ottomans in the Eastern manner. Beyond that I found my reception room, where coffee and sweetmeats had been prepared. My entourage was meantime ushered into the women's apartments to be similarly entertained. This was no hovel of the ragged−arsed nomad whom I had been apt to picture. Everywhere was the finest inlaid wood of Moorish design. Rich silk hangings on the walls and deep−coloured carpets on the floor were fit for a palace. True, a man might live much cheaper here than in London. All the same, I quickly revised my expectations of my host! To judge from the shelves bearing leather−bound volumes, this was the library of the Villa Rosa. The sheikh was also a man of education and refinement. It was just then, my gaze growing accustomed to the gentler light after the sun's glare, that I set eyes for the first time upon Nabyla. Ah, Nabyla! I wonder whether—master of women though you may be—you could satisfy so demanding a young mistress. Let me describe her to you, as I first saw her. Nabyla was in her early twenties, a proud Arabian beauty with a classic levantine appeal. She was of medium height, I suppose, her figure nicely rounded but well kept and in no sense flabby. In appearance, she had well−defined features, dark eyes of great intensity, and jet black hair, which was worn loose and lightly waved to her shoulders. How little this tells you of Nabyla! Be patient for a moment more! On that first occasion she was dressed in a close−fitting red vest, or singlet, and a pair of dark blue cotton knickers. These were the sort worn by many Arab girls, encasing her from waist to ankles, not transparent but drawn skintight. Be sure that I watched her closely as she moved about completing the arrangements for my entertainment. As she walked, the arch and wiggle of Nabyla's tight−seated pants would tense and mould the cotton in a sequence of shifting temptations. At last she came to me. “I am Nabyla. I am yours. I am your slave, my master's gift to you.” My appetite for food vanished at this prospect. There was a fierce challenge about Nabyla, a proud and educate young woman who, I discovered, relished passion in its most extreme forms. She possessed a cruelty towards other women—her rivals—which was positively fiendish. Massoumeh, a prettily plump Persian wife with a crop of henna'd hair and a saffron figure, had been Nabyla's rival for her master's bed. Nabyla's minions had seized her and carried out a vengeance which Paulus had threatened for Noreen. Massoumeh's knickers and harem pants were stripped off. Her private parts were spread with honey. A CHAPTER FOURTEEN 81 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane hornets' nest had been laid unbroken in the base of her toilet commode. The cheeky Persian wife was sat upon this, her haunches pushed well down through the seat opening. The nest was broken and Nabyla stood there as the vindictive insects swarmed upon the honeyed cunt−lips and into Massoumeh's bottom−crack. This continued until the young Persian woman shouted her renunciation of all rights in her master's penis and screamingly proclaimed Nabyla the victress. Yet Nabyla had little respect for any man who was too gentle with her. After I had had sex with her in many different ways and in moods ranging from playful to pitiless, she confessed that the worst thing was not for a man to be cruel in passion. It was when he might be indifferent in his lack of passion. So, after she had made her first explanations on my arrival, I smiled at her. “Then take your knickers off, Nabyla! Sit on my knee. Spread your legs and arse−cheeks as you do so. Have no fear, my beauty, I will spare you nothing! I will keep the taste of sperm in your mouth and on your lips for days to come. Your warm Arabian cunt shall have so much cock that it will ache to be without it! For days afterwards, the sensations of the penis will linger in your tight bum−button.” How beautiful Nabyla was when naked! That pale gold skin of Eastern loveliness was drawn so taut and smooth over the satiny swellings and archings of her figure. Caring nothing for my unknown sheikh, or the possibility that this was a trap, I drew off my own clothes, put Nabyla on her back on the floor, and mounted stiffly between her thighs. What a ride that was! Fit for a king! Her thighs gripped round me like a vice while she milked my prick with her cunt in a way no English damsel ever learns! What ferocity there was in those dark levantine eyes, what passion! I took her by the jet black hair and kissed her lips hard. She responded wildly. There was a demented tussle of mouths in which she bit my own lip to the blood and moaned in ecstasy at the taste of it. She begged me to make hard use of her thighs as I rode in and out of her cunt—to bruise her upper legs. If I did not, she swore, no other Arab girl would believe that she had stimulated any passion in her new lover. In our ecstasy we rolled over, for she enjoyed riding uppermost quite as much. Now her hair spread upon my face as she bit my shoulders. At the same time she begged me to mark her, to pinch her bottom black and blue that she might show my love for her to the other girls. So it was. As her hips rode perspiringly on me, I took nips of the smooth gold flesh of Nabyla's tawny bum−cheeks between finger and thumb. I pinched hard as I could and felt her entire body grow rigid with the torment she sought. It was slight enough, I suppose, and it certainly drove her wild with venereal energy! She cried out only when I drew from her and pushed her head down so that I might watch Nabyla suck my tool. After she had done this, I turned her on her belly, knelt astride her, and now parted the cheeks of her taut gold−skinned backside. Lubricated by her saliva and love−juice, I easily entered Nabyla's bottom. Here too she was a superb mount and I the most fortunate of riders. In her passion, unable to vent it directly on me, she arched her head back and moulded her breasts with her own hands. She raked her flanks with her fingernails as I buggered her. Then it was her mouth and her cunt again. I swear I had never known such a thing before. Sometimes I rode uppermost, sometimes she. My tool pistoned in and out of her cunt as if driven by a turbine! She came shudderingly—once—twice! “Nabyla, you young wildcat!” I gasped at length. “Now you shall see what passion you have provoked! I only wish I had three pricks to pump you with at once. You should have this in your cunt, another in your mouth, the third up that Arab girl's arse of yours, Nabyla!” CHAPTER FOURTEEN 82 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane And with these immortal words, I let fly my sperm with a zest I thought I could never have equalled. I was done for! Winded! Shagged! Knackered! Foutu! Cocked up! Whatever your own favourite term may be. Do you know what my young Arab beauty did? As I drew away, she rolled on the carpet, lying on her side, one thigh lifted, and manualised herself with such vigour as you would not credit! She had not had enough! Nothing like enough! For a full ten minutes, as I dressed and watched her, Nabyla masturbated shamelessly on the carpet in front of me! I sat down and watched her subside at last into motionlessness and then sleep. “Oh, Charlie De Vane!” I said to myself as I sat there. “What kind of a trap have you walked into here?” Now that the ecstasy was over, I was left with the sober thoughts of the future that any man must have contemplated in my place. So preoccupied was I that I did not hear the soft click of the latch and the footfall upon the carpet. “Well, sir,” said a voice behind me, “are you truly Captain Charles De Vane?” I spun round and saw, for the first time, the Sheikh Atra Amani. My knees quaked for fear and my throat went dry with instant terror. As I have had occasion to suggest before, you may be a far braver fellow than I. Yet, without intending insult, I will suppose that even you would have shuddered at the awesome vision. May I explain? The Sheikh Atra Amani stood there in the clothes of an Englishman, well−cut flannels and striped rowing blazer, with no hat on his head. That alone would not have terrified me. What was worse, for me, was the dark hair, suntanned aquiline features, blue eyes, strong honest chin, all of which belonged to my old friend—Jack Tremaine! In that moment I saw a ghost—I who believed such phantoms were nursemaids' tales to frighten little boys with! Jack was dead. I had seen him shot, seen him fall. Paulus and the others spoke of his death! Dammit, I had seen his very grave in the Transvaal! Yet here was Jack standing not ten feet away and smiling at me. Had I gone mad? That was the simplest explanation. Had I died and been transported to a harem of the Moslem paradise, whither Jack had preceded me? Yet neither of us were Moslems. . . . “Charlie, old fellow!” Jack said, coming towards me with hand outstretched. “What a deuce of a time you've been in getting here! I quite gave you up for lost in Durban!” I got up and, not knowing what I did, took his hand. It was firm, warm, and not the least spectral. “Jack?” I spoke the word. It came out between a croak and a quack. He regarded me with affectionate concern. “Charlie, dear friend! You ain't hurt, are you? That young Arab bitch Nabyla ain't done you a mischief when you fucked her?” “No,” I shook my head stupidly, “but you're dead, Jack! Dead!” He laughed hugely at this. “Charlie! Charlie! Even you thought so. Capital! Absolutely capital!” I looked wonderingly. “Are you not dead, Jack?” I asked stupidly. “Are you safe here with the Sheikh Atra Amani?” CHAPTER FOURTEEN 83 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane His honest laughter made the room ring. “Charlie, your poor muff! I am the Sheikh Atra Amani! These Arab chappies are friendly enough, but they can't pronounce the Queen's English for toffee−nuts! Jack was 'Shake' to them, and Tremaine—with a bit of a hesitation in front—Ah−Tra−Ah−Mani.' Did you never twig it? Truly?” I shook my head again. “But, Jack,” I insisted, “you were killed in the escape from Utrecht farm!” He pursed his lips and drew breath sharply. '1 damned nearly was, old fellow! No two ways about it. The bullet brought me down and the fall knocked me cold. By the time I came round from the concussion, I was lying on a trestle in a place where all the other poor devils looked as dead as I felt. Mind you, I knew they'd come back soon enough and find I wasn't dead. But I could move, though my head was like a punch ball.” “You escaped?” “Not so fast, Charlie! I took the things from my pocket and changed them for what was in the pocket of a poor Boer fellow who hadn't long for this life. He never knew. Then I hid and listened. As soon as I heard Paulus mentioned and knew you were safe with him, I planned my way.” “You heard about Noreen and Lesley?” “I knew they tanned Lesley's arse. In fact, I heard Lesley getting it. Music in my ears, Charlie, after the young bitch betrayed us so. Then I caught the two Portuguese traders who were taking the girls away and made them an offer. If they'd see me to the coast and the Arab dhows, I would buy both girls for a handsome price and start my own harem!” “You were bankrupt, Jack, as well as dead!” “Not quite, Charlie!” He smiled. “Some time ago I thought how convenient it might be if a chap were supposed dead—only really alive—if the chance ever came. In any case, I laid hands on all the cash I could raise before we left England and put it under another name. I never thought I should be supposed dead, but as it turned out, it was handy for that purpose. Mind you, I don't own a stick nor stone of Tremaine Park, nor anything else in old England now.” “Then all this is yours, Jack?” “Every inch of it!” He chuckled, “And every girl! These Arab fellows have a prime system, Charlie. Once a fellow buys a girl as his slave—as I bought Lesley and Noreen—the bitch is his property! He can do as he pleases with her.” “I wish you may be happy, Jack,” said I. “I shall often think of you and wish you well, when I am settled at home.” “Think of me?” he said incredulously. “Charlie! This is yours too! Nine girls you brought with you today!” “But no money,” I said firmly. “I won't live on yours, Jack.” He laughed louder than ever. “No need for that, Charlie. You are richer than I can ever be!” CHAPTER FOURTEEN 84 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane “Am I?” “You never heard of my life policy, Charlie? My old guv'nor took it out so that, if I died young, the debts on the estate might be paid. Mind you, we Tremaines are a long−lived family so it was never a likely spec. But then, as you say, I was popped off by the Boers. Tens of thousands of pounds, Charlie, and let the bailiffs have what's left at home!” “I have none of that money, Jack.” “Oh, yes, you have,” said he. “At Lourenco Marquez, with the two traders, I drew up a will and dated it six months earlier. I witnessed it with the signatures of two brave fellows who had fallen in the line of duty since then. The whole value of that policy is to be paid to you.” By now I was too deeply involved in this to extricate myself. “So you say, Jack, but I haven't got it.” “Oh, yes, you have, Charlie. It lies in a French bank by the harbour—not ten miles from here—in an account under your name. Every penny of it. You and I, Charlie, are never to be poor again. A bribe or two in this place buys you the world.” “We can't go back to England,” I said wistfully. “Ascot and Hurlingham, garden parties at the palace, Henley Regatta, and grouse shooting on the glorious twelfth! All gone forever!” He looked at me as if I were a simpleton. “Charlie! We may live here like millionaires with every sort of delight and a few dozen girls competing to offer us the most exquisite pleasures their young bodies can provide! Yet you pine for the sight of fellows riding horses, rowing boats, and shooting birds? It ain't in reason, Charlie! It ain't in reason!” “No!” I said suddenly, admiring Nabyla's nudity. “It ain't, by Jove!” That evening we were waited upon at dinner by two pale−skinned young women in black masks. They were naked otherwise. I soon recognised them as Noreen and Lesley. Like Nabyla, Lesley had fallen to me in the division of the spoils. That night I took her and Nabyla to bed. Resolving that for the future I would make each girl a specialist, I commanded Nabyla's cunt and Lesley's backside as my first two avenues of harem delight! CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Villa Rosa—Delights and duties of owning a harem—The choice of girls and pleasures—A farewell to the reader AND SO our adventure comes full circle, bringing us back to the moment and the place from which we set out. Here we are once more in the comfortable lamplit room of the Villa Rosa with the Moorish courtyard outside, where you and I first made one another's acquaintance. What a journey we have shared, from the high−spirited follies of a bachelor party at the Albany to the stern rigours of war in the South African veldt! Now that you have been kind enough to be entertained by my reminiscences, I must hope sincerely that you have not found them in any way tedious. One matter of supreme importance remains to be settled between us before we take friendly leave of each other. I return to the question which I put at the very instant of our first meeting. Would you take my place here? Would you relieve me of the burden I bear, for the time being? I confess that I too must visit England CHAPTER FIFTEEN 85 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane incognito and pursue one or two little schemes which Jack and I are bringing to fruition. Before you agree, let me utter a word of warning. To possess a few dozen slave girls—English, Arabian, French, Indian, mere novices of fourteen or experienced beauties of twenty−eight and thirty—is a dream of bliss to many fellows. Yet it will not be so in reality for you unless you are prepared to meet the problems posed. Problems? I hear you say the word. What problems? How can a man who is the owner of such delights have any problems left? If you are indeed the man to whom I may safely deliver these young women, you will see the dangers and know how to avoid them. Ask yourself first how you will deal with the warm passions between girls which are universal in harems. I would advise you against cruelty and vindictive jealousy. Let two beauties love one another and they will love you the more in gratitude. You may thus assist at the honeymoon pleasures of a lynx−eyed beauty like Miss Jolly and a healthy young pupil like Sandra. You may enjoy the display of their naked embraces. Then you will mount one of them while the other assists your ecstasy with eager fingers. How will you ensure that a young rebel like Elaine does not destroy the peace of your enjoyment here? Will you be a reformatory master like Mr. Miles? Will you not, rather, appoint Nabyla as disciplinarian? The contest between an Arabian beauty and a tomboy of fifteen would be truly fascinating! Some problems are more intriguing still and I cannot advise you for the best. Imagine yourself one evening posing Lesley naked upon a bed. You require her to lie on her back, knees drawn up so that the spread of her thighs and love−pouch is presented in an upward squat. First you apply your lips and fingers to her pale, pink−cherried breasts. Then you stroke the light−haired love−lips between her thighs until she moistens. As you do so, a figure steps forward from the shadows. You will recognize the firm pale features, the brown hair worn loose and straight to the shoulders with its short slanting fringe. It is pretty Jane, your youngest possession. The girl's lips are parted a little, her white teeth set teasingly on her lower lip. “Can I watch you with Lesley?” she asks innocently. “Please!” Her brown eyes are full of wonder, submissive and yet coquettish. Could you resist the appeal? Listen to Lesley's wail of protest. “Send her away! Don't let her see!” So you are the judge. “Very well, Jane. You may stay if you choose.” Then you turn to the young wife. “Lie on your side, Lesley. Knees drawn up. Make love to yourself with your fingers.” There is the usual sulky protest, overruled by your command. Twenty−eight−year−old Lesley turns on her side so that her back is towards you and her face hidden. She curves one hand back over her hip, fingers seeking the vaginal lips at the rear opening of her thighs. Young Jane watches entranced as Lesley strokes and parts her own labia, no doubt pretending that it is her husband or a lover doing it to her. The light cunt hair glistens with her love−dew, and she breathes harder as she rubs herself firmly round her clitoris. “Isn't it wicked to do that?” whispers Jane wonderingly. “You must make allowances for Lesley, my pet. A young married woman needs to do that if she's been used to her husband's love.” CHAPTER FIFTEEN 86 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane You are, of course, preparing Lesley for a night of passion, and so you check her before the climax. You turn her firmly mature figure so that she lies facedown over the pillows. There is a gasp and a grimace as she takes the dildo in her rear. But still you let Jane watch Lesley's arse−exercise. “Why does she have to have it that way too?” asks Jane sweetly. “It's nice sometimes, Jane. She won't have a baby that way. Yet Lesley can enjoy feeling a man's penis inside her, several in one night. And she can have the thrill of feeling as much sperm juice pumped into her as her lovers wish. Even though she had her two babies, she's nice and tight there, which makes it much more fun for the man.” This satisfies her but only for a moment. “Why is Saleh going to whip Lesley tomorrow in front of you and Jack?” “She has to be punished for things in her past, Jane.” “Will it be the pony lash on her bare bottom? Is that why you're going to make love with her tonight?” “Yes, my sweet. She won't feel like it for a day or two after. Tonight she needs love to take her mind off tomorrow. When I leave her, Nabyla will keep Lesley roused until Saleh fetches her.” (Perhaps you were unwise to allow young Jane to stay and watch. Now her curiosity is dangerously aroused!) “If Saleh whips me tomorrow, you'd have to make love to me now!” There is such candour and innocence in the youngster. Stepping out of skirt and knickers, Jane pushes facedown over the pillows beside Lesley. The lank brown hair brushes her bare shoulders as she turns her firm young face, brown eyes, and slant fringe to watch you as the dildo widens Lesley's rear. “Do it to my bum as well!” Jane's frankness is truly alarming! “Jane, my pet! Lesley has had married sex and two babies. She's a mature young woman who is used to such things!” “I'm a woman too! From now on I want everything Lesley gets! If Saleh whips me tomorrow, you've got to make love to me tonight. Promise! If not, I'll know you don't really love me—and I'll give myself to the Arab boys!” You may well pause in your dealings with Lesley! Jane is your real problem! Your young adorer is implacable. And yet you must choose! Which shall it be? You refuse and Jane joins those unwholesome orgies where Arab boys of her own age masturbate together and even perform anal love. Unthinkable! You could not soil her so! So you consent? Then in a moment you plan to have Lesley on her back, knees drawn up as you stroke her cunt−lips to wetness. Next you ride into her belly and spend copiously. Must young Jane pose alongside? Will you ravish her of her virginity tonight—even if you find a pretext for avoiding her being whipped tomorrow? CHAPTER FIFTEEN 87 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Worse and worse! A fortnight hence, at most, two other girls of her own age—Sally Fenton and Linda Jennings—are handmaids as Jane loses her other virginity. In the bridal chamber she kneels over the pillows. Linda Jennings, the sly little blonde, slips the tight knickers of green silk down to Jane's knees. Sally Fen−ton with her cheeky curls lubricates the anal dimple. Alas, this is what consent involves. Imagine your adorer's face then, watching your approach over her shoulder, lower lip nervously between teeth. Will you dare? If you agree to love her like Lesley, you must! Her attendants, Linda and Sally, watch you. Have you the resolve to bugger young Jane Mitchener as equality demands? You cannot! Or can you? Alas, I can advise you no further. Now I go to join Jack in England. He is master of an old house, Grey−stones, which Mr. Miles would envy, and rules over thirty young women! Our story has a sequel, you see! Your harem will make heavy demands upon you, but we should be delighted if you could visit Greystones for a few weeks. You will? Excellent! To whet your appetite look at some of the photographs in the drawer beside you. A riding lesson at Greystones! Jackie is the promiscuous blonde trollop of twenty−five. Note her bell shape of pale hair, insolent blue eyes, firm jaw, and fair features. Her hips fatten out those bronze−toned riding jeans, skin−tight at the seat. Mandy is only fifteen. What long firm legs and strong young body! See her steady brown eyes, firm profile, auburn−rinsed brown hair waved to her collar. A singlet hugs her straight back and soft breasts. Tight blue riding jeans shape her long legs and the firm broad cheeks of Mandy's backside. Now the grooms strip Mandy and Jackie, lay them on the straw, and fuck them in turn. Vanessa, a local high school girl of fourteen with shoulder−length brown hair, high−boned cheeks, and crinkling blue eyes, kneels on the stable floor. Vanessa sucks the pricks of the apprentice boys who watch the grooms in Jackie's cunt. Now, see the fattened seat of Jackie's tight bronze−toned jeans as she bends. Ah, they turn the short bell shape of her blonde hair to make her face the camera at the same time. The first penis enters Jackie's bottom, parting its pale fattish cheeks. Two more are waiting! The stable lads take Mandy's pants down for her. Observe her strong pale legs, light vaginal hair, the cheeks of Mandy's strapping young arse! The young slut sprawls grinning on the stable straw. A groom makes her show the lads her breasts, makes Mandy part her legs and arse−halves while he gives a joking anatomy lesson. The boys demand to see such ingenious body portals in action. The groom smiles. “Show us what a duty girl you can be, Mandy. Do it lying on the straw. . . . Have your lovers finished with you, Jackie? Lie on the straw next to Mandy! Show the boys what a young lady does in private each day!” Now five bare bottoms in a row. Jackie, Mandy, Vanessa, Kim, Tania, strapped over a harness rail. A lesson in the use of the pony lash. Hard to say from the next picture whether Jackie or Mandy had it worse. Though Vanessa's fourteen−year−old bottom is well marked too. Now I must take my friendly leave of you until we meet again at Greystones. As I travel, I imagine your first night of harem bliss. The choice of delight is yours, of course. Yet now I imagine you stirring from sleep. Arabian morning, rich yellow sun, filters through latticework, gently illuminating the large divan where you lie naked. Your chosen girls also sleep naked with you on the silk cover. Across the head of the divan Nabyla lies on her back, the lithe tawny smoothness of her upper thighs forming your pillow. You need only turn your head to kiss her clitoris with its soft dark hair, or admire the warm Arabian cunt−lips between lightly parted legs. CHAPTER FIFTEEN 88 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Jane, a pretty contrast, lies across the divan lower down. Her head rests on your thighs, her face turned to you in sleep. Affectionately you smile at the firm innocent features, the lank brown tresses and slant fringe. Even in sleep her lips press your stiffening penis. Turn your head to the other side and you see Lesley. She lies with her back to you, her head towards your feet, knees drawn up a little, body curved forward from the waist. Twelve inches from your face the rear parting of her long trim thighs shows a posterior view of her vagina−pouch, presented almost to your lips. She is not quite naked. A black strap is tight round her waist. Matching straps are drawn firmly round each thigh. No doubt her wrists are pinioned. With a pang you recall what Saleh will soon do to her. Or do you smile, imagining this promiscuous, urchin−cropped wife, sprawling on her belly, pretending to be a prison boy birched on the warden's sofa? Her hands are pressed between her thighs as she offers her cunt−lips to you. Curving forward in sleep, she shows you the anus−bud of Sodom between her buttocks. That telltale smear of lubricant between Lesley's bottom−cheeks will amuse those who see her disciplined this morning. But look again at her hands! The young bitch is secretly fingering her vagina. The pearly droplets glisten. Does Lesley masturbate while sleeping? Ah, you are not deceived! She pretends to sleep. Hearing you stir, she misbehaves to show her need of love. What does Lesley dream of as she plays with herself? Nights of passion as a bride of twenty? Her babies? The lover for whom she walked out on marriage and kids? Anything to avoid imagining how the walls of Saleh's room will ring with her screams this morning. Now, study the four girls standing at the divan's corners like beautiful ornamental lamps. They wear only black silk stockings to mid thigh and an ingenious suspender belt which supports a tiny lamp, front and rear. One illuminates the girl's face, breasts, and triangle of cunt hair. The other shows her arse and rear thighs. Judith and Elaine are at the divan's foot, Linda and Sandra at the head. These four lamp holders will position themselves as you wish. You prefer a charming ensemble of young faces, breasts, and love−slits? There you have them. Judith, the nymph; Elaine, the tomboy; Sandra, the good girl; Linda, the sly little blonde minx. Or else, give the word and they will present, as they turn, the four most innocent schoolgirl bottoms in the world. How will you pass the hour before Saleh begins his work? Stroke Jane's brown hair till she wakes. The penis is already at her lips. She takes it in her mouth as she stirs, even before you ask it. Touch Lesley's hand as she masturbates furtively. She will pretend to wake and freeze motionless with a gasp of dismay. “Go on making love to yourself, Lesley. Arch your hips back a little more and give me a better view. Keep your face to the mirror. No! Don't close your eyes while you do it! Widen your cunt−lips!” Your eyes feast on this double view. Your fingers fondle her soft white breasts whose nipples are already hard and erect. What choice of pleasure can you make? Young Jane has softly imprisoned your tool in her mouth. Your hands are busy with Lesley, whose own hands are occupied with her vagina. Yet your lips are free and so is Nabyla. The tawny−skinned beauty has a look of sullen passion. Being an educated young woman, she has read of love's stranger ways in the libraries she has visited. You summon her to kneel astride you? You kiss her warm passionate clitoris? Your lips and tongue follow her crack, not even shunning Nabyla's Arab−girl bottom? You taste hot spices with which she prepares her cunt and arse? CHAPTER FIFTEEN 89 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane By all means! Yet I must advise you that Nabyla is savagely jealous of Lesley, who may so easily be fastened by her straps. As you enjoy the Arab girl, expect to hear Lesley cry out from some vengeance which Nabyla's fingers and nails inflict between her legs. Or again, the dildo which forced so dramatic an entrance in Lesley's rear still lies on the silk cover behind her, where she ejected it. Take care, unless you want Nabyla to employ it, Lesley's arsehole stretched cruelly round the stout base of the rubber penis. You dismiss Nabyla and put Lesley to a softer ordeal of love? How wise! She suffers no worse than the ravaging of your lips and tongue while Jane's tongue tip flickers teasingly under your foreskin. Your mouth is close to the backs of Lesley's long trim thighs, her vagina−pouch peeps at the top. Her cool smooth bottom−moons are tautly filled out as she lies forward from the waist. You admire this pale symphony of contours, the firmly mature body of a young married woman fulfilled by the marriage bed and childbirth. Only the straps recall the fiery kisses of Saleh's whip which await her in a little while. Like a randy bumblebee you taste her body−flowers. Light and repeated, your pouting kisses tease the fleshy pouch at the rear opening of her thighs. You are admirably shameless in your lust. You even mould a kiss to the bud of Lesley's anus. She gasps in dismay. “Tell me, Lesley, did your husband never do such things to you?” She bows the crown of her straight, boyishly cropped fair hair and says nothing. “Too timid to reply, Lesley? Saleh shall put the question during your discipline. You will have lost your shame then!” Your lips browse on the rear of the young woman's thighs, over the proud young Amazon swell of her milk white bottom−cheeks, her back, breasts, shoulders, mouth. She sighs yearningly under your caresses. Soon Saleh finishes arranging the heavy stool in the next room. The birch with its three long switches is taken from its trough of brine. Does Jane tremble at her boldness in asking to share Lesley's fate? If you agree, she will be the first whom Saleh summons to judgement. You draw from Jane's mouth and guide Lesley to suck you. “Turn on your belly for the last half hour, Lesley! The pillows under your loins to raise your thighs and seat for my kisses. Jane, my pet! Watch closely how Lesley sucks the penis! Ah, I must release one jet to ease the pressure! Exquisite! Show Jane the love on your tongue, Lesley. Good. Now let her watch you swallow!” Lesley sucks again. Your mouth dotes on her warm light−haired love−purse, the smooth saffron yellow skin of the young wife's bottom−crack, her dark anus−bud, pink cunt−cleft and clitoris. Did you grant Jane's wish to be treated as Lesley is? If so, Saleh now leads her to the next room. Lesley shivers, knowing she will be next. Jane, naked in the doorway, teeth pulling her lower lip, looks back at you, almost beseeching you to cancel the bargain. Repeatedly your lips map Lesley's arse, upper thighs, and vaginal cleft. The zone is bounded by the black straps ornamenting her pale statuesque body at the waist and high on her legs. While she sucks and your lips salute her, you watch the open door. Did you grant Jane's wish? Then she is secured on all fours over the stool. The gag protecting her pretty teeth will compress her cries to a frantic mewing. Could you consent? Then Saleh's slim lash cracks across the pale woman−child cheeks of Jane Mitchener's fourteen−year−old bottom. Let us end with Lesley, the heroine of our tale. Sounds of Jane's whipping increase her own desperation. Soon her turn must come too! “Lie still, Lesley,” you murmur. “Relax your thighs and bum−cheeks!” CHAPTER FIFTEEN 90 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane She draws her mouth from you, urgently asking a few minutes of much−needed privacy before Saleh comes for her. You dismiss it as a schoolgirl's trick to delay the caning she cannot bear. Moreover, your stiff prick has no conscience. You could not allow her to desert your penis in its present state. So you refuse. Lesley's buttocks clench, her thighs tighten. Under her fair parted fringe the blue eyes are incredulous. Her mouth emits a peevish wail. But you refuse again. “Not now, Lesley! You'll wait until Saleh has finished with you.” “But I c−can't!” Such a sulky little−girl voice for a young woman! Lesley's bottom−crack compresses to a thin tight line, her thighs are tighter together than a strap could hold them. “I must!” “That's your problem, Lesley.” Your hands oblige her to suck, as you kiss her hips murmuringly. “Herr Muller and Mr. Miles are our chief guests, Lesley. They are well used to such situations. Can you guess which twelve−year−old accompanies Mr. Miles? No? She is your very own! Did you think you would be spared that, Lesley?” Such barbarity, you cry! You will not think so when you are with Lesley in these moments. For now you are about to discover a profound truth about her. She sucks you more vigorously as you hint at the punishments and humiliation awaiting her in the next room. As you work her cunt with your lips and tongue, she wets herself with love−juice as a girl only does in true excitement. Soon her morning strapped over the stool will begin. She knows it. Your guests are men of substance and well−dressed middle−aged women. Their eyes will meet hers with amusement and vindictiveness as her adulteries are described. The women will comment on the oily smear between Lesley's buttocks, the wetness of her thighs. They will remark, for her to hear, what a wanton young whore she must be. As she turns her face frantically during punishment, there are Arab boys in the room's shadows. Each of them eagerly shows her the stiff little penis in his hand, his enjoyment in seeing her whipped. Knowing all this, Lesley is lubricating herself copiously. Indeed, for the sake of the fine silk covers you lower her to the tiled floor and resume your positions there. What is the secret? Her lust is bizarre yet logical. Lesley has been an arrogant, promiscuous young woman, spoilt and self−possessed. What pleasures are left to her? The most powerful of all! The explosion of excitement caused in her when her wilful moodiness is pitilessly repressed by an absolute master. Even her most elemental needs may be permitted or denied by him. The masochistic excitement of slavery enthralls this educated and emancipated young woman with her snooty and dismissive air, as it never could a demure, submissive maiden. Her thighs are writhing, their backs also wet with juice. “A long session this morning, Lesley,” you murmur, mouthing her. “The sofa stands close by the stool. For the first hour you must be a prison−farm delinquent, your bare bottom at the mercy of Herr Muller's birch. Ah, you tremble at that despite your shamelessness! Must you blemish the sofa cushions in your frenzy? Assuredly the silk will be wet with your tears and the varnished wood marked by your nails in their wildness.” She moans—piteously or yearningly?—while she sucks the prick. “Then Saleh will put you over the stool, Lesley. A gag and a persuader strap must be used. Our guests wish Saleh to take you beyond routine chastisement, making such refinements necessary.” At this her thighs palpitate like moth wings in her first orgasm. She emits a single warm jet before she can hold back. Writhing in joy on the tiles, she dews her thighs and pubic hair, and even sits in the wetness her passion has left upon the glazing. You suck again. CHAPTER FIFTEEN 91 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane Do not mistake me. Lesley does not enjoy the strokes of the whip. How could she? Her aphrodisiac is a fearful thrill of anticipation and erotic memories of her ordeal afterwards. Now her cunt moistens as she imagines her imminent predicament. Aid her in this. A finger traced between her buttocks reminds her of Saleh tightening the persuader strap between her seat−cheeks as she kneels over the stool. The needle tips lightly denting the smooth skin of Lesley's bottom−crack dictate absolute stillness during chastisement; her rump thrusts out obediently with cheeks fully parted. Yet the smart of the whip makes such total obedience impossible. Lesley must be caught between the uncontrollable need to clench or squirm and the martyrdom of the persuader. See how that dilemma excites her now! Much more so than the awareness of needs which she will not be able to contain during the long punishments. In her present state, under the compulsion of the lash, Lesley will be driven to abandon her ultimate feminine privacies and reticences. Such is the penalty when a promiscuous young woman is whipped for her former adulteries. Her body's most menial functions are commanded by the snakeskin thong. Lesley's passion is far beyond any control now as the tension rises and her time grows short. “A third orgasm, Lesley? But you hear Saleh's footsteps! How your cunt−lips swell! Your thighs seem to flutter with excitement! I would be cruel to deny you this one! But this time, Lesley, the dildo in your bottom as well! My teeth lightly on your clitoris. My sperm on your tongue! Ah, Lesley, you young whore! Again! Again! Saleh is waiting for you now! Ah, exquisite! Lesley! Lesley, darling!” I imagine such things as I travel—O Master of the Harem! If the truth were told, most men—even some women—would pay a king's ransom for your place. Few would admit it but many dream of it! Permit me, as I journey, to imagine the murmurs and echoes which rise from your palace of pleasure—past and future. “Astride my thighs, Judith darling! Oh, my sweet girl! Thread your cunt more deeply on me! Ride your hips up and down! Exquisite nymph! Turn your face to me, Judith! Be shameless in your pleasures!” “Arch your bottom right out, Cara Jolly! The last jets of my passion deep inside it! Ah, does that soothe you at last?” “Run your tongue under the rim of the knob as you suck, Jane! Stop a moment, my pet. Watch how Noreen does it. Now begin again!” Or will you become a scholar in female anatomy, discoursing to men of learning with naked models in your private lecture theatre? To such scholars you display the comparative pudenda of two sisters—Pauline at eighteen, Elaine at fourteen. Now the undressed girls turn and bend over. A learned appraisal of the fatness of Pauline's bottom and thighs, she having “whelped on the sly.” Now your fingers map the sturdy tomboy contours of Elaine's bottom and thighs. How vital, you show, that she shall not spoil herself too. How easily avoided by strict discipline and care with the sperm bestowed upon her. . . . You turn to Lesley and Vivian, who lie naked on the demonstration table. The young woman of twenty−eight and her girl−child of twelve lie side by side on their bellies over the rubber bolster. You show the piquant contrast of the female bottom in one family between a Venus and her pretty daughter−nymph. Both are in condition to perform any demand, as you part and probe. Demands are made and forlornly complied with. A CHAPTER FIFTEEN 92 The Amorous Memoirs of Capt. Charles De Vane guest notes slight fading abrasions on young Vivian's buttocks and on Lesley's. They were volunteers, you assert, for last month's lecture on the comparative efficacy of birch and bamboo. Lesley's bottom was the demonstration target for the cane and young Vivian's for the birch. Repeat the lecture after dinner tonight? The same two models? Lesley, the boyishly cropped Venus, and Vivian, her pretty daughter−pupil? It will be a pleasure, gentlemen! Forgive me! These are mere imaginings! I must not presume to dictate—even to suggest—your choice of pleasures or girls! For, by my decree, you are now the master here! Au revoir. . . . CHAPTER FIFTEEN 93