stricken to the heart by the magic of her violet, marvelling orbs, made the slightest impression. She would have given all the picked lives at Pulborough and its vicinity for one, soft, lingering kiss from the parental lips. She loved her father deeply, truly, loyally.
Sandcross had arranged to go to England to fetch his wife and daughter, returning to France by way of Dieppe, meeting Fanny at Lewes as she left the Pulborough people, and proceeding to Newhaven with her, where father and daughter would meet Mrs. Sandcross returning from Buxton, and thus all three could embark and cross the Channel together.
All the dates were carefully arranged by Mr. Sandcross, and he had a motive in being so punctilious. He had not seen Fanny for nearly two months, and as he was getting on in years, full of business cares, and wary now of the wiles of professional prostituted beauties, we may surmise that he had been faithful to his own girl as he called her. He was burning for a quiet night with her, and had arranged things splendidly as he thought.
Mamma, of course, knew the day on which her husband would meet their daughter at Lewes, lunch with her there, and bring her on to Newhaven, but what she could not divine was that Fanny had arranged to leave Pulborough on the eve of the day notified to her mother, so as to get a night with her papa in the same bed, and then go on to Newhaven next morning. Sandcross was also to leave Paris twelve hours before the time stated to his wife. His good lady, rather feeble after her severe bout of illness, obliged to take minute doses of digitalis, thought it would be better to start from Buxton a day before the time fixed by her husband and sleep at Lewes. She really did not feel equal to going right through to Paris. It would be a nice little surprise, too, for Sandcross and Fanny when they met to have lunch, to find mama at Lewes having preceded them, instead of waiting their arrival at Newhaven.
The fun of her pleasant little trick sustained the poor lady on her journey, albeit she was but the shadow of her former self, walking and breathing with difficulty. She reached Lewes safely shortly after sunset and arrived at the specified hotel.
She asked for a room, and telling her name, explained how being unaccompanied, she wished to dine and sleep and meet her husband and daughter the next day. The reply came readily that Mr. Sandcross had just been in, had engaged the big room on the first floor for himself and lady, and had stepped out again.
Mrs. Sandcross, still really very ill, could not worry her enfeebled brain about this strange coincidence, and jumped at the muddled conclusion that somehow or the other she had misunderstood her husband's letter, which was in her reticule, and he was no doubt expecting her.
She replied with gasping utterances-it was strange now how the least excitement made her pant and tremble-that she was the lady in question, and would go up to her husband's room.
Once in the comfortable single-bedded, clean, old-fashioned chamber, she was glad to get off her hat and jacket and sit down to rest. There was a nice, antique, padded chair with big arms behind a light screen near the fireplace. She would recline there and have a nap until her good hubby returned. How she longed to see him and her handsome, devoted daughter! They were so good to her, so kind; such splendid nurses. The poor lady dropped a tear or two, partly out of pity for her own weakened, suffering self, and also for joy at being once more with the only two persons she loved. Really, she was very low and nervous. Doctors nowadays were great faddists. Fancy!- nothing but milk to live on for two months! No wonder she was all to pieces and starting at every sound. Wait until she got back to Paris. She would soon get her strength up with Normandy beef, grand fat fowls and fine old Bordeaux, not forgetting aged vintage Champagne. It was time for another little sip of that nasty digitalis stuff, and she must read- hubby's letter-dear Oliver!-silly mistake-Sandcross always so particular too-doctors softening her brain- no more milk-so tired-my reticule. And Mrs. Sand-cross dozed peacefully in her comfortable armchair.
It was now dusk and the low-ceilinged room was full of deep shadow when Mr. Sandcross, escorting Fanny whom he had fetched at the railway station, came gently into the bedchamber.
The door was no sooner closed and locked than by a mutual impulse, they fell into each other's arms, upstanding, and their mouths met in a kiss of long pent-up desire, tongues intertwining, lips clipping lips, and hands clasped, until Sandcross threw his arms round her, moulding her buttocks with one hand while he pressed her close to him with the other so as to feel her perfect bust crushed and throbbing against his breast. They ceased for want of breath and lost no words in idle talk. Fanny left his clasp, took off her hat, and throwing her slight bolero behind her, began feverishly unhooking her bodice. Sandcross, congested, his outstretched hands trembling, stepped towards her. Fanny waved him off.
“Undress, pa darling! We shall just have time before dinner. Make haste, I'm longing for you much more than you are for me!”
With a merry smile of denial, Sandcross tore off all the armour of civilisation, but despite his celerity, Fanny was naked, save natty nutbrown shoes and stockings, long before he had struggled out of laced boots and spun silk drawers.
He caught her again in his arms, drunk with delight as he once more felt her naked, tightly stretched, smooth skin against his sturdy, hairy body. The enamoured father would have dragged her to the bed, but she resisted.
“It will look so funny in this quaint hostelry if we go to bed before dinner. The sofa will suit, daddy love. I want to see you all over, and then you'll have to slap my bottom for being such a naughty little devil of a daughter as to play with the big thing I see sticking out from between my father's thighs. Oh! if it hadn't been for that great truncheon, I should never have seen the light of day, and also should never have had its whole length inside my body; in my hands; in my mouth- everywhere!-all over me!”
He was seated on the sofa, stark naked, and she, entirely nude too, was squatting between his open thighs admiring the gigantic, erect priapus she was so fond of. She caressed it with her fingers.
“Isn't it big? And impatient too? I can feel it throbbing in my hand. It feels for all the world like some huge, soft, warm dormouse that I might have made a prisoner. How nice you smell! What a time it is since I've enjoyed your own special perfume.” She ceased stroking his standard in order to inhale the odour of her own fingers which she pressed rapturously to her nose.
“Come now, papa,” said Fanny, excitedly, jumping up, “I've been a bad girl and have got so wicked.” She took his hand and placed it on her. “You must punish me for that and drive all these naughty thoughts out of my head!”
She pulled him gaily off the sofa and threw herself upon it on her ivory belly.
Papa stood up over her, entranced with the sight of her sloping shoulders, arched loins and the immense expanse of her rotund buttocks, as white as driven snow and as elastic as a freshly-inflated balloon. He slapped quickly and smartly with deft, stinging, spanking blows due to long practice.
“Oh, it's beautiful! You make me feel so exquisitely naughty! Harder, pa, dear! Quicker, kill me! Strike more with the tip of your fingers! Oh! oh! No-no more! It's awful now! Not so fast! Am I red? Ah! That was too bad! I'm sure the skin is broken! Don't! Oh, don't, I tell you!”
She writhed and twisted, pressing one arm to her face, and the other was bent behind her, palm upwards, in the small of her back. Papa had never ceased cruelly beating her with his hands, first one, then the other, and finally both posteriors at once, until they were black and blue, irregularly studded with small speckled wounds, whence issued tiny drops of blood as big as pin-heads.
This was quite enough for brazen Fanny, who sprang up and threw herself on her back, placing her clasped hands about her papa's neck, and pulling him down to her. He fell heavily upon her. She opened her legs.
“Make haste, my own papa! Your daughter is dying for her father's hard cruel thing that tore her to pieces when she was seventeen! Oh, put it in! Quick! Give me all of it! Don't keep me waiting! Don't tease me so, pups!”
He was so excited and trembled so much with lust and long abstention from the pleasures of the flesh that he bungled.
“There-silly pa! You've forgotten how to do it! Was that how you managed with mamma? It's a wonder you ever got her in the family way at all then? Isn't it- oh!-how beautiful! Push! Now! There! Oh, don't come yet! Let me-spend-first! I'm spe-e-ending! Oh! oh! Stop, pa!”
He remained still, admiring her form, lifting himself up a little way, pressing her large breasts.
“Now, go on again Gently at first! So! Oh, papa! I'm your wife! Enjoy your wife, Oliver darling, and make her see the angels!”
“You're not my wife, Fanny child; you're my daughter, my own offspring, sprung from your old daddy's loins nearly nineteen years ago! Oh! oh! I can't help it! I must spend now!”
