Noreen had, not unnaturally, been permitted to visit the stable closet. I was still toiling at Maggie when the other girl returned.
Maggie shook her blond fringe-a gesture like Noreen's-and turned her face from me, watching the other bed.
'Mag, you young bitch!' I said crossly, 'pay attention to what I'm doing to you!'
She ran her tongue round her teeth in a suggestion of humour and looked away again.
'Look at her, then!' Mag whispered, in her light, lilting voice.
Noreen was lying on her side, half of her belly, in the familiar pose. What had Maggie seen? I disengaged, went across, and looked. What do you think? The sturdy cheeks of Noreen's bottom blushed deeply. Here and there they bore the muddy imprint of the hard rubber heel of a canvas gymnastic slipper. I could scarcely understand it. Could it be that, while she was in the toilet closet, Noreen had persuaded someone-a groom or even a stable-lad-to tan her hard with a gym-shoe? Either the heel was damp or had been spat upon for greater effect.
Maggie was standing beside me now. 'Don't you see?' she murmured, 'that's to say how sorry she is. Isn't it, Nor?'
Believe me, neither of those two girls left that same bed during the rest of the night. Mag sucked again first, then Noreen. Next I spread Noreen's legs and brought her to dumb ecstasy. After that I would have been envied by some of those who admired Mag's nicely rounded arse-cheeks as she bent in the stable room. Turning her over, one hand under her belly to support her, I spread Maggie's bottom-cheeks and buggered her in turn. The blond hair was presented to me, but the mirror showed her face, the hard pale features and predatory blue eyes under her fringe. I guessed it was not her first time.
You will believe me, dearest Lizzie, when I tell you that the early summer dawn lightened the gardens outside before our pleasures were concluded. Indeed, my letter was begun immediately I came back to my rooms in the house itself, and is now finished as the maid brings in my breakfast.
Will you be too jealous if I tell you that the maid is Maggie and that there is a note on the tray from Miss Martinet? On the breakfast tray there also lies a slim bamboo. My left hand, the one with which I do not write, guides Maggie to bend over the desk. She turns her head aside, the collar-length hair too. Such a hard and knowing young face with its pale oval and its darkly made-up blue eyes. The well-formed, tightly-rounded cheeks of Maggie's arse are so close I can scarcely move the pen. My hand shapes them.
'Take down your pants, Maggie! Miss Martinet orders you the cane!'
Now my hand fondles Mag's bare thighs and backside. I really must break off, dearest…
… And now, dearest, the sun is an hour higher in the sky and I may resume. Maggie's bottom is a sight indeed. She kneels in repentance before me, her blond fringe tickling my bare belly, her tongue moistening her lips as she unbuttons nimbly. Believe me, Lizzie, only my loss of you drives me to these wild resorts of passion! Such are the woes of the flesh!
Your own adoring Charles
LETTER 4
My dearest Charlie,
Faithful to my promise, as ever, I write by the first post for England to tell you of the amusements which I have witnessed since our arrival in this place. Alas, my sweet, we must be separated for weeks-perhaps months-but I vow I shall entertain you with anything of a frisky nature which comes my way. Thus you may know that your adoring Lizzie still cares for you as fondly as ever, and longs only to keep your spirits up and your resolve stiff until our next dear embraces.
How shall I begin! A few hours after our ship docked, we were borne away in a regal carriage to the residence which my father enjoys here as Britannia's ambassador. Cool, white-panelled rooms awaited us behind a garden of palm trees and purple bougainvillea. All is gilt and embossed, fit for the king himself. And yet what tedium would this have promised me-so much empty ceremonial and dull diplomacy-had it not been for the kindness of the Pasha of Ramallah.
The Pasha is a delightful companion, witty and courteous, always deferential to my rank and sensibilities as the daughter of a British envoy. He is a darkly handsome man of about forty, educated at the best schools in England and then at the Sorbonne. His house, overlooking the deep blue of the bay, is grand enough for a palace. Yet it is nothing to his country estate, some twenty miles away in a desert oasis, where he keeps his wealth and his harem.
Ah, you wicked boy! Do I sense that your ears prick up at the word 'harem'?' Come, I will not scold you! To speak the truth, I was so intrigued by the notion, that my longing to see the beautiful slave girls in their silken and perfumed prison of love was quite as strong as is your own. However, my dearest, I, as a mere woman, might hope to be admitted there. You, alas, never could.
At first, indeed, it seemed to me that even I should never manage to prompt an invitation from the Pasha to visit that private place. We were, of course, given a general invitation to visit the fine country house. Charlie, you never saw the like of it! The oasis is a green island in an ocean of brilliantly white desert sand. A high wall surrounds the place, and it is well guarded by his soldiers to keep marauders away. Inside are the most beautiful ornamental gardens with little hills, lakes, paths, temples of delight, and the bright, perfumed flowers of Arabia.
What shall I say of the house itself? It is a place of marble courtyards and ornate fountains, colonnades of Moorish arches, like the Alhambra itself. The rooms are sometimes open and sunny, sometimes deep and mysteriously dark, the scent of burnt spice rising from the braziers. England knows nothing as rich as the secret world of bright silks and dark tapestries, the stools and sofas which seem made to shape a woman's body to her lover's commands.
However great my curiosity, I was careful not to show undue interest in the harem at first. I talked of it casually to the Pasha. Charlie! What do you think? He confessed to a taste for English and European girls as well as Arabian, Indian, and even Caribbean. I could not object to this, knowing that my father's power rendered me entirely safe. Yet my eagerness to see the beauties of his seraglio was now keener than ever. To my astonishment, he said casually, 'If you are free to come on your own tomorrow, I shall order Nabyla to take you to the gallery from which you can view my treasures.'
Can you doubt that I seized this opportunity at once? I was protected from harm by the position of my family and, even had this not been the case, my ravening curiosity would soon have conquered my misgivings. It is rare enough for a guest-man or woman-to see the beauties of the harem. What was still more provoking in this case was the knowledge that the Pasha of Ramallah had such a splendid collection of European odalisques as well as those of warmer climes.
Next afternoon, I was punctual to the minute. After the usual compliments had been exchanged, my host summoned a young Arabian beauty, Nabyla, who was to be my guide. She had a taut, swaggering voluptuousness of figure, skin like dark-gold satin, fiery eyes, and a sweep of silky black hair. In her company I was led to a gallery of white-and-black marble arches, rather like a cloister, which ran round one of the main rooms. Latticework filled the spaces of the archways so that we were able to spy upon the occupants without being seen ourselves.
Sunlight filtered through coloured glass high overhead, illuminating one of the Pasha's favourites. My guide explained to me in English that this was Tania, a girl of twenty, from the Pasha's European collection. I was taken at once by the soft prettiness of her face and figure, her rather short crop of brown curls clustered on her forehead. Such a pert female cherub, I thought, the nose neat and straight, the chin nicely tucked in. Her sun-kissed face has, I imagine, a delightful tendency to dimple when she smiles. As with most girls from that eastern clime, her cheekbones are high and her blue eyes shadowed by them.
As we observed her, Tania was by no means fully dressed. She boasted only a snug-fitting, white singlet and a pair of light-blue denim drawers, which were tight as skin from her waist to her knees. We came upon her in this charming costume just as she was stooping over a table, resting on her elbows, reading a book. What a delightful picture she made!
