performance going on in his back door, or whether he really was very much inflamed by my charms the young man fucked me beautifully, and, tired as I was, I enjoyed it. We three were finished long before Sir Richard's party, and the entertainment concluded with my squatting above the woman's mouth, so that she employed her tongue in my arse hole, while Sir Richard licked my cunt, what time I took the young man's prick in my mouth, at the same time that he was being buggered by the last remaining man. It was somewhat of an elaborate set piece.”
“I should think it was indeed,” was my comment, when I had read this amazing confession.
“And that,” concluded Gladys, “is the story of my first rape. I won't bore you with further details of the affair. There was only one other thing of interest about the affair.”
“And what was that?” I asked.
“They gave me ten pounds,” said Gladys, “a sum of money which I could very well do with at the time.”
CHAPTER TWO
“A pretty woman,” (says the inspired Lentory) “robs humanity if she remains a virgin after her sixteenth birthday. As for the twaddly sentiment that men desire to marry virgins, thank heaven I have been able to put a stoper on that on the slope of the Caucasus.”
“Lentory?” says Gladys, pausing in the middle of her toil, “who the old gentleman is Lentory?”
I refrain from chiding her. I know that the divine Lentory is all too ill known in England.
“Listen, Child,” I answer, “Felix Lentory is the greatest poet of the ages. He was a shepherd on the Caucasian slopes and filled his leisure time with writing. After five years of this desultory work he attracted the attention of a touring Viennese nobleman. The personage attracted as much by the extreme beauty of the shepherd boy as by the genius of his writings, took him back to the city, paid his maintenance and had his works published. Few translations exist in the English language, in fact I do not think that any are for sale publicly. But there remains no doubt but that Felix Lentory is the greatest writer on love that the world knows just at present.”
Gladys did not appear particularly impressed: “Bit of a bugger boy, I suppose?” was her only comment, and with that I had to be content.
“I speak in English,” Madame Karl would frequently say, “I write in English, now-a-days I even think a good deal in English, but breakfast in English I never have done, and I never will.”
Wherefore, when in response to a gently graduated series of knocks on my door I woke on the first morning of my stay at Jermyn Street, it was to find Christine the maid, bearing my cafe complet on a silver tray.
Madame, she informed me, would join me presently, then, as she drew aside the curtains, the crisp, clear winters light ran into the room, and swept what was left of the dustman's sleep from my eyes.
I must say I like breakfasting in bed; the meal is a necessity at the best of it, not a luxury; wherefore it should be consumed with the least inconvenience and the most luxurious surroundings possible. I experienced a delightful feeling of ease that bright morning as I lay in my pretty bed and sipped the coffee. I had to get out of bed for a moment, and went to the window and looked down on the street below. I could see through an open space in the houses opposite to where Piccadilly roared in full flood, the sun glittering on the panels of the carriages and the cabs, bright and cheery and genial and good natured; so it all seemed. One could hardly be otherwise than good tempered on that perfect morning, and in that jolly room-Presently Madame Karl slid into the room, a dream of a little woman in a sort of breakfast jacket which was more than principally openwork in its style. It was just nicely calculated to make an otherwise fired out man feel it incumbent on him to have a final fuck in the morning. Her little round pink breasts were glowing under the openwork, with the nipples showing quite plainly. The contour of her body and legs was more suggestive than if they had been seen quite naked. Of course she did not look absolutely fresh; but she was quite carefully prepared.
She sat on the edge of my bed, displaying 12 inches of pretty leg swathed in black silk stocking, and yawned. “The morning sometimes brings regrets to a widow, my dear Blanche,” she sighed.
I kissed her lips, and I am quite sure that at that minute we both of us thought of other kisses presented by beings bearing a distinctive badge of sex between the thighs.
But about breakfast. Even at Lady Ex-well's, where we were supposed to be very smart, the meal did not approach anything like geniality.
There the massive table used to be littered with a profusion of indigestible dishes, and the sideboard groaned beneath the weight of the cold viands. The woman came down shirted and collared and tailor made gowned, and the talk turned inevitably to the slaughter of beasts. I have only one affectionate memory of the early morning habits of that house, and that was when a new footman, mistaking my bedroom for one of the gentlemen's, marched in with a tray bearing a decanter of brandy, a syphon, and a pint of champagne. Seeing his mistake, the worthy fellow would have fled, but I hailed him in no uncertain tones, and put away my small bottle like the best man in the house. I found out afterward that the midshipman had been monkeying with the boots in the passage, and put a pair of old Sir George's easy twelves outside my virgin portal. However, I kept up my habit of the morning bottle till I found out that the liveried idiot had been inventing gallantries on his part to Lady Exwell's maid, whereupon there was a suspicion of a scandal, and the morning pints had to be stopped. At Sir Thomas Lothmere's the breakfasts were the same solemn and elephantine nature aggravated by the preface of family prayers, read by the arch scamp, George Reynolds.
Breakfast undoubtedly is a meal that needs to be tackled in private and in bed. You may say what you will about rosy cheeked, healthy English girls who go flower picking excursions in the garden on an empty stomach, and you may prate about the mushroom that you have plucked yourself, tasting the best-a statement to which I unhesitatingly give the lie-but girls do not look their best at breakfast, and as it is their duty to conceal themselves during the hours when they do not please, let them break their fast in the seclusion of their chambers. Then think of the comfort of it; no horrid clamorous gong to wake one from delightful morning dreams, no enforced appearance at a fixed hour, to be mechanically pleasant to other people who are just as cross as you are yourself; but when you have decided that the right time has come, just a pressure of the bell, and in a few minutes your breakfast, and your letters, which you can read without the suspicion that your next door neighbor is looking over your shoulder.
“I can put in a criticism on the breakfast meal,” interrupts Gladys, “in the shape of a letter from a friend of my brother's addressed to that young gentleman. I found the thing some days afterwards, and her, my dear Blanche, if you want to fill up a bit of the book with no trouble to yourself, it is.'
I naturally allowed the letter: Glady's letters, if they were anything like her usual contributions to the gaiety of nations, ought to be worth publishing in any work.
Here it is: My dear Billy I had a ripe time at the boat race night. We staged, per usual, at the Cri and had the usual stinking dinner. Then of course we made tracks for the Empire. At the Empire I found her. She was but a common trottin of the promenade, but what a trottin. Tall, lissom, sweetly beautiful, and with a development of figure in the breast department, and also in that portion of her just below the end of the tail, which promised great things.
We drank, and I took her away, or rather she took me away, in a cab to some unknown part of Fulham. I was blind, and I remembered little till the morning. Then a frowsy sort of maid of all work brought breakfast. We ate some of it, but I do not care for the feeling of eating buttered toast with cunty fingers.
That, of course, is one way of considering breakfast.
After our little mal in Jermyn Street, we dressed leisurely, each admiring the pretty body of the other. It was strange how firm Madame Karl's skin was, how round her buttocks and her breasts, considering her age and very considerable experience of a gay life. Upon my word, she had nearly as good a figure as I, and at that time I really think that a looking glass seldom reflected more perfect charms than those supplied by Blanche's naked little body. I used to flatter myself, in fact, that if I failed to do any good on the stage, the career of a model in the altogether was always open to me. In fact, once during my stay with Madame, during a period of hard-up-ness and at that time when I was particularly anxious not to touch the dear little Madame for any money, I did put my pride in my pocket and have a round o? the studios. After trying about five I found a man who wanted a model for the figure.
He was very blunt about it. I was consigned behind the screen, and came back naked to the world, to pose before a critical eye, now additionally armed with a pair of glasses. He decided I would do, and I got to work there
