feigned pleasure to embraces she would prefer to have quickly ended.
I suddenly remembered the letter I had taken from the greedy-fingered hand of my early morning visitor, before closing that same hand over the two silver coins which were the price of her hire, and crossed the room to the desktop on which it was lying.
I picked it up and tore it open, after first noting that it was postmarked five weeks previously. How long, I wondered, does a letter customarily take to cross the Atlantic in a fast clipper ship? Surely I should have known, and yet I did not, despite the many times I had stood on a London dock waving goodbye to friends bound for America, and how often my eyes had strayed over the arrival and departure listings of just such ships in London newspapers.
It proved that I was not quite the man of the world I prided myself on being, for to possess knowledge of such matters is taken as an indication that one is accustomed to traveling widely, by both land and sea, and in drawing room conversation nothing more immediately stamps a man as wise in the ways of the world than to have such information at his fingertips.
The letter was briefer than I had thought it might be. But it left me in no doubt as to the cordiality of the welcome I would receive if I joined an old and trusted friend in the West Indies, in a business venture we had discussed at some length before his departure from England.
To many Englishmen the West Indies conjure up a vision of lepers and cathedral bells, and gaunt, famine- starved men and women, pitifully in need of the many “blessings of civilization” which Europeans take for granted, although I have seen just as much wretched poverty in the streets of London.
To me those sun-bright islands conjured up a quite different vision. It was of large-breasted women, gaily attired and balancing market baskets on their heads and fording many a stream with their skirts raised above their knees, even pausing to remove all of their clothes in the noonday heat to bathe completely naked and let male passersby contemplate the joy of having them until their loins ached and their members grew as rigid as battering rams.
As I stood reading my friend's letter for the third time I could picture myself already on shipboard, as I knew I soon should be, with the salt sea air in my nostrils, and with the unmourned London skyline dissolving in the fog.
The following curious document was found attached to the original manuscript of Jonathan Richardson's diary.
Episode One
I shall try to write in bold, short sentences. Many of my contemporaries write in long, involved-and to me, rather boring-sentences. I shall try to avoid this practice.
I shall begin with me unlacing my breeches, preparatory to mounting the comely wench who lay on my bed, skirts raised and with dawn just breaking outside the window to give sufficient light to enable me to see the most delectable part of her.
Then it was that I remembered the book.
What book? my reader will ask, so I shall endeavor to explain fully.
The book contained confessions. My uncle had given it to me a few days before when he'd departed on his third trip to the West Indies. I was to deliver it to a certain Thomas Matthews, Esquire, whose address my uncle had laboriously transcribed for me.
I had read two chapters of these confessions this morning early and the result was that here I was in this wench's chamber, ridding myself of my breeches, my eyes loving her blonde thatch of hair nestled and enticing me from beneath her luscious creamwhite thighs.
Poor Uncle, I thought. If only he knew what a bad example he has set for me. Had I not read the first two chapters of those bawdy confessions I'd not be here in this place so early in the morning, but those chapters excited me outrageously.
Had it not been for the confessions I would have waited at least until noon, Uncle.
“What do you smile about, my love?”
The words came from the red lips of my little friend who lay waiting my manhood, her blonde forest of pubic hair glowing like sunburst between her widely spread legs.
I looked down. My tool stood erect, ready for female entrance-a vibrant, husky machine of a young, healthy Englishman, a loyal subject of the Crown.
“Why do you stare at my precious commodity, my dear?” I asked. “Surely you have seen a man's rigidity before?”
She laughed in her throaty, prostitute voice. “Ah, I have seen far, far too many, perhaps?” Her blue eyes glowed with mirth and desire. “Some, though have been so flabby, so wrinkled-well, one would hardly think of them as tools, m'lord.”
“Would you label mine flabby and wrinkled?” I challenged.
She leaned from bed. I felt her sweet hot lips brush the tip of my bayonet. A fleeting, loving gesture-warm, clasping lips, a hand lightly brushing my left buttock before falling and she lying there, eyes loving my burgeoning erection.
“Ah, sometimes I think I have seen too many,” she murmured in repetition. “Yours is so smooth, so polished and-oh, quite, quite large. When you chisel with it do the splinters fly?”
I laughed softly. “Well spoken, wench. Life is full of surprises. I would wager that you could match wits with a Lady in Waiting to Her Majesty, what?”
“If I were such a Lady the good Queen would empty a full chamber pot over my errant head,” my lovely companion said, laughing. She then began to squirm on the bed, a look of savage impatience coming into her eyes as she held out her soft arms to me.
“I am only a toy of pleasure, m'lord. But, when your staff goes into me, its delectable penetration will make me forget I am of the other side, will it not?”
“I shall try, m'angel,” I promised.
“Come, sweet lover, and pierce me. I am a whore at heart, born to the prong of a man-and enjoy each sticking. Oh, my god, m'lord-”
Her hand now lay on my organ, holding it even more protruding, but it had taken a life of its own, and would leap ahead of me into her like a little man, booted and spurred and riding red-coated to the baying hounds-riding in haste and avid with desire.
I ascended the bed. I positioned my eager body between her upraised, spread out legs. My blade ached to penetrate the hairy nether walls, to lance itself into her vulva in deep eagerness.
Her deep breathing boosted and let fall her full breasts, dark of nipple and with said button standing upward, begging for my sucking lips. With a wild cry of sheer happiness, she steered my lance into her hair-rimmed and hungry cleft.
No need was there to part her nether lips with my fingers, to dampen with her own fluids the sides of those lips. Now did I need to bare her clitoris, preparatory to laying my pulsing knob against its damp curvature to bring its secretions and loveliness to trembling culmination.
So adroit were her womanly accomplishments that I was instantly within her feeling my bulb storm the very portals of her womb, for I am long of penis and big around-in fact, I am proud of my largeness, but any man would have that right were he so equipped as I.
Thus I rode her with a suddenness, my knob deep within her warmth, her nether lips grabbing my shaft and releasing it as she gasped in pure joy, eyes closed and lips open to show her shiny, even white teeth.
Bliss was scrawled on her lovely face. “The best position in the world a woman can assume,” she said gaspingly. “To your rocks, m'lord, to your balls, m'lord! Feed me all your cock, m'lord. Ah, you break against the gate of my womb and I come, m'lord.
“My god, I bathe your plunging shaft with my whiteness. How grabs my lips, m'lord? Am I not a whore worthy of her hire, and then more than that?”
I didn't answer. The reason was simple. My head was buried against her left high breasts, her sweet nipple
