Throwing the scissors down, she clasped me round the waist with her left arm, and again attacked my bosom with her lips, whilst her hand, having no obstacle to oppose it, took possession of my fleshy motte and throbbing cunnie; She was altogether too delicious for me to wish to oppose her. With the palm of her hand she pressed the rising, elastic cushion above the deep line, whilst her middle finger slipped in up to its knuckle, and was completely buried in my rapidly moistening cunnie.
'How nice! What a sweet, sweet little cunt! How velvety and soft inside; how quickly it responds to my touch. Oh! What would not Charlie give to get his prick into such a lovely shrine of love.' She rambled on, moving her finger up and down, occasionally withdrawing it to seek another more ticklesome spot between my cunnie's lips, near the top, and then pushing it in deep, in and out, until I felt ready to die with the pleasure she caused me. At last she felt a convulsive little throb, which told her that I was very nearly come. She clasped me to her bosom, her breasts against mine, swerving her body a little from side to side, so that her bubbies swept on mine, backwards and forwards, her nipples catching on mine, and tickling them immensely, whilst with her lips open and sucking my mouth, I felt her moist tongue darting in and out between my teeth.
All this takes longer to write than it did to act. I felt myself growing faint with exquisite languor. I could see nothing. One vast pleasure seemed to embrace me on every side. I was all on fire, and suddenly, with almost a pang of voluptuousness, I spent all over Lucia's hand and wrist. Keeping her finger still gently moving, and gently pressing my motte, she drew back her head, looked at me and said: 'Now, Susan, was not that a nice one?'
'Indeed it was,' I said, feeling almost unable to speak from excess of emotion.
'Well, a man would give you fifty times as much pleasure with his hand, and a thousand times more with his prick!'
Then she suddenly left me, ran for my towel, wiped her hand and then commenced to wipe me gently between my thighs.
'Ah, what a pearl of a cunnie!' she cried. 'What a lovely bush and what a lot of silky hair you have here, darling! What a splendid motte! A regular cushion for love to repose upon! So elastic, yet so soft! Gods! Why am I not a man now that I might enjoy all these beauties?'
'I almost wish you were, Lucia darling,' I said, laughing, 'for I am getting most particularly curious to know what new bliss there can be in store for me. But really! Do you know, I believe you are making me lose every particle of modesty I ever possessed?'
And I laughed again.
Ah, Susanna mia! Modesty is the shift which covers the cunts of us girls; a useful garment enough when we go abroad into society, and one which no wise woman would care to be without, but in intimate friendship like ours, it becomes useless, nay, like those wretched drawers of yours, and those abominable stays, all absolute bars to freedom and ease. I would not offend against modesty in public, but with you, or my lovers, I think it is a thing to be put off, and I like to be a natural woman on such occasions, naked as the ungloved hand. Ah, happy thought! Let us strip altogether now, and have a good look at the shapes beneficent nature has given us!'
She threw away the towel, and slid first one shoulder, gleaming like polished marble, then the other out of her shift, unbuttoned her drawers and let them fall to the ground, whisked off her garters, pulled off her stockings, and in less time than you could count to ten, dear reader, there was Lucia as naked as she was born, and as beautiful in her nudity as Venus fresh risen from the sea.
I, as usual, was slow. In every step I was hesitating. A struggle between consciousness and innocence seemed to occur every time I was asked to take a pace forward on the road to the fulfillment of the sacrifices to love, though I am bound to say that the struggle became weaker and weaker as every forward bound brought with it new and more exquisite enjoyment.
But Lucia could not tolerate slowness; she came and added her nimble assistance, and in a moment I was, like her, in a state of perfect nature. A kind of bastard shame, however, took possession of me. Not even before Martha had I been accustomed to be so completely naked as I now was, and instinctively I put one hand over my motte, whilst with the other hand and arm I attempted to hide my bosom. I felt myself blush, too, under the keen gaze of Lucia's beaming eyes.
'Oh, the charming, charming Venus de Medici!' she cried, clapping her hands. 'Don't stir from that position, Susan dear, you are lovely, lovely. I want to walk round and observe and admire you from all points of view. Don't stir. Just lift your hand a little bit off your motte! That's it. Ah! I can see in you what that Venus was not permitted by her sculptor to show; the sweetest little cunnie retreating between voluptuous thighs, and shaded by the most silky-haired nest I have ever seen,'
And so she chattered on, walking round and round me, putting me into various attitudes and claiming, in what sounded like the language of exaggeration, at all the perfect beauties she saw in me. According to her I had the very finest shape she had ever seen; the glossiest, whitest, smoothest skin, without a spot, a girl could possibly have; a bosom for a god to revel in; thighs to clasp a Lazarus with and bring him straight back to life; whilst my cunnie was an object so perfect to outward appearance that Venus herself would have envied me. All this time I was taking equal stock of her, and of her beauties. Ah, reader! Would that I had the pen of a poet, that I could do Lucia justice. I only half listened to her ravings about myself, so absorbed was I in gazing on her. Every movement was a verse of poetry, and every charm a blaze of beauty.
My room was lighted by one high window, and on one side of this window was the press in which I hung my clothes. It had a broad door, and that door was a large mirror, fully six feet high. I was a girl of nature. Had I ever bathed near this mirror I should have often seen myself naked reflected in it, but as a matter of fact, it never struck me that it was worthwhile to take the trouble to walk from the corner of my room, where my bath was always placed for me, to look at my naked charms in this glass. I used it occasionally when I dressed with extra care to go to church, or to go into Worcester, or to Malvern, but I was not much given to admire myself in any glass.
I had no idea that I was beautiful, and I did not care for my face. But Lucia, who was very artistic in her taste and no mean hand with brush and pencil, at once saw an opportunity for a pretty picture. She drew the curtains of the window so as to form only a broad chink, through which light enough would shine to illumine any object near the window, but not so much as to cause any powerful reflections from the walls, and then placed herself and me, side by side opposite the mirror. I was delighted. I had never seen anything so perfectly lovely as we looked in that glass. Two naked nymphs with the most graceful forms, glowing with life, showing all that makes beauty most bewitching; rosy cheeks, cherry lips, glistening eyes, necks and arms, thighs of polished marble, breasts looking each a little askance tipped with rosy nipples, skins as pure as snow but lighted with the faintest rosy tints, as of light reflected from a dying sunset sky, and forms which shone out against the dark background, sharp, yet soft lined, and clear as the light of day. Oh, what a mistake artists make in failing to ornament the soft, rising triangle beneath the curve of their beauties' bellies, with the dark curling hair that Nature has provided, surely to enhance the lovely slope which leads to the entrance of the Temple of Love. The contrast afforded by this dark, bushy little hill, and the surrounding white plain of the belly, or the snowiness of the round, voluptuous thighs is really exquisite. And why do painters and sculptors neglect the soft, inturning folds, which form that deep, quiet-looking line, that retreats into the depths between the thighs, half hidden by the curling locks, but plain in nature, and to deprive woman of which would take from her her very essence? They don't do it to men. I have seen statues and pictures in which all that a man has, prick, balls, bush, are represented with striking fidelity, if partly idealised: why then should it be indecent to picture woman's most powerful charm? It cannot surely be said that what men most prize in her is too ugly to be drawn or moulded. Lucia was wild over her lovely picture, as she called it. She put herself and me into various attitudes and admired, as indeed did I, all that the faithful glass reflected. I could not help noticing, however, that her form showed greater maturity than mine, but she told me that there were few girls of my age who could compare with me in that quality, and that in a very short time, some few months, my shoulders and hips and limbs would be as round as hers.
'As for your bosom, Susan, I would not wish to see it one atom more developed. I should like you to keep these exquisite little bubbies just as they are. Let them grow just a trifle firmer perhaps, but not one atom larger. See! A man's head could hardly completely cover one. They have just sufficient prominence to fulfil the law of beauty, and they look so imploringly at one as though to say “Please squeeze me! Please kiss me!” Your motte I should like to see just a trifle more plump. Another quarter of an inch rise would do it no harm, and be more agreeable for a man to feel when he drives home the last inch, or squeezes in the last line after the short digs.'
'I am beginning to understand,' said I, 'but Lucia, now you have the opportunity, and no one is near, tell me
