explore.
I fell to my knees and dove at her tasty fruit, licking and sucking at it like a man dying of thirst in the desert. Ariane threw her head back as my tongue separated the lips of her pussy and probed her depths.
“I want you to fuck me,” she whispered heatedly.
Who was I to deny her that which she so eagerly sought? I pulled her to the floor of the terrace with one hand; with the other I loosened my trousers and let them fall. I shuffled forward, leaving them tangled in her dress, and moved between her opened legs. She was exquisite. Her pussy was a smile that was so enticing that I dispensed with further preparation and simply brought my cock to its target. I levered it down and put the head against the pouting lips. Then I thrust forward until that swollen cap was just inside her slit. She gasped and begged me to let her have more, more, more. I reared back and rammed into her, driving the entire length of my ramrod into her lovebox. She immediately clamped her legs around me as if afraid that I would leave her before the final act of our play.
I began to fuck her forcefully, driving all the way in and pulling nearly all the way out. My hands were clamped onto her heaving tits, crushing them and pinching the enormous nipples that I found so delectable. “Yes, yes,” she moaned, “fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me hard. Ohhh, I had almost forgotten”
I drove into her with a fury that surprised me. Every fiber of my body, every sense, seemed centered in my cock at that moment. I could feel the pressure building, and knew she was experiencing much the same thing if her writhings were a fair indication. Her breathing came in staccato gasps when she flooded my rod with her pearly nectar. At the same time I shot a copious amount of sperm into her thirsting pussy.
Sadly, I didn't see Ariane again once I left Athens, but it was not the end of my association with her family.
The son eventually threw up the page business and went to Paris. Six months later we met in that city, where he soon became the accredited admirer of Sarah Bernhardt. He was one of the handsomest men I have ever seen and Sarah fell for him to a degree that was almost incredible. She got him to act on her stage and took him on one of her journeys through Eastern Europe. In Trieste, I think it was, she noticed that he was deceiving her with a young actress in her company and at once accused him before the whole troop. Damalas heard her to the end in silence, and then said simply, “Madame, you will never again have the opportunity of calling me names.” His ideal was always the perfect gentleman. He left that same evening for Paris. Without him, she could not continue her tour and returned to Paris disconsolate and begged me to bring about a meeting with the only man she had ever loved. I did as she wished, but Damalas would not go back to her. “A great talent,” he said to me, “but a small nature and a foul tongue.”
It was almost her epitaph: I never thought her as great an actress as Ellen Terry.
In these years in London between the beginning of the century and the Great War, there were many men of ability that one ought to write about. First and foremost of course, Sir Edward Grey, and then Abe Bailey and Barney Barnato, and J. B. Robinson. Grey, of course, was an English aristocrat, whereas the other three were South African millionaires. The first time I met Grey was at dinner at Sir Charles Dilke's. Dilke had a high opinion of him; Grey was good-looking, above medium height, slightly but well built, with a mind that seemed very receptive. In reality, he had no measure of those that talked to him. He accepted Dilke's opinions of South Africa as readily as mine, and when Harold Frederic talked to him of the United States, he accepted some things and rejected others according to his original conceptions. Consequently, he learned nothing valuable. He listened most pleasantly but I soon found out that he had learned nothing except an argument or two to defend his original view. Grey had one of the closed minds of the world and that is almost as bad as to have no mind at all. I rate him now below almost any of his contemporaries.
Abe Bailey was a Transvaal millionaire, and Barney Barnato had not only made one fortune in Kimberley, but another and larger one in Johannesburg. He lost a million or so bucking against Rhodes and Beit, and he finally threw himself overboard on the steamer returning to England and perished miserably. But Abe Bailey was better balanced, if not so rich; he resolved to make a second home in London, and now for more than 25 years has been an important figure there.
J. B. Robinson, too, pursued the same course, though for one reason or another he was disliked by most of his fellows. Since the beginning of the century he has been a resident in Park Lane, and is strong and well, though he was over fifty years of age in 1900, a slight weakness of hearing being his chief physical defect. Robinson, curiously enough, was the first man to find and buy diamonds in Kimberley and also was the first to discover and exploit the gold mines of the Rand. He can tell the romantic story of South Africa's wealth better than any other man.
None of these people impressed me like Henri Rochefort of Paris. He was really an extraordinary person, full of wit and venom. When he heard that Queen Victoria intended to pass the winter in Nice for her health, he wrote in his paper, “L'Intransigeant,” that she had better stay at home. She was not wanted in France, he said, “that old stagecoach that persists in calling itself Victoria.” He came to see me and spent a month or so with me in London. I found him kindly to those he knew, but he held nine out of ten men in disdain.
For fifty-odd years he had fought as a journalist in Paris; “the noblest profession,” he said, “when not the lowest.”
In 1912, for the first time, he had to rest. “I'll soon be at work again,” he said. “My old teeth can still bite.” But a little later, in his eighty-third year, he passed on.
Was his influence good or bad? Distinctly bad, I should say, but Paris forgave him everything because of his wit, as London has forgiven Kipling everything because of his patriotism.
Very few people now remember the noble letter in which George Russell, “AE,” scourged Kipling for what he had written about Ireland. Of course, the trouncing was well deserved. Kipling had written against the Irish just as he had written a dastardly story against the Russians whom he regarded as dangerous to England. When France in 1906 pushed forward at Fashoda into what was regarded as British Africa, Kipling wrote against the French furiously, and in the World War, he coolly declared that no German should be allowed to survive. Why he fell foul of Ireland, I cannot recall, but Russell's letter will witness forever against him in literature. It begins:
“I speak to you, brother, because you have spoken to me, or rather, you have spoken for me. I am a native of Ulster. So far back as I can trace the faith of my forefathers, they held the faith for whose free observance you are afraid.
“You have Irish blood in you. I have heard, indeed, Ireland is your mother's land, and you may, perhaps, have some knowledge of the Irish sentiment. You have offended against one of your noblest literary traditions in the manner in which you have published your thoughts.
“I would not reason with you but that I know there is something truly great and noble in you and there have been hours when the immortal in you secured your immortality in literature, when you ceased to see life with that hard cinematograph eye of yours and saw with the eyes of the spirit, and power and tenderness and insight were mixed in magical tales.
“Surely you were far from the innermost when, for the first time, I think, you wrote of your mother's land and my countrymen.
“I have lived all my life in Ireland holding a different faith from that held by the majority. I know Ireland as few Irishmen know it, county by county, far I traveled all over Ireland for years and, Ulster man as I am, and proud of the Ulster people, I resent the crowning of Ulster with all the virtues and the dismissal of other Irishmen as 'thieves and robbers.' I resent the cruelty with which you, a stranger, speak of the most lovable and kindly people I know.
“You are not even accurate in your history when you speak of Ulster's traditions and the blood our forefathers spilt. Over a century ago, Ulster was the strong and fast place of rebellion, and it was in Ulster that the Volunteers stood beside their cannon and wrung the gift of political freedom for the Irish parliament. You are blundering in your blame. You speak of Irish greed in I know not what connection, unless you speak of the war waged over the land; and yet you ought to know that both parties in England have by act after act confessed the absolute justice and rightness of that agitation. Unionist no less than Liberal, and both boast of their share in answering the Irish appeal. They are both proud today of what they did. They made inquiry into wrong and redressed it.
“But you, it seems, can only feel angry that intolerable conditions imposed by your laws were not borne in patience and silence. For what party do you speak? When an Irishman has a grievance, you smite him. How differently you would have written of Runnymede and the valiant men of England who rebelled whenever they thought fit. You would have made heroes out of them.
