“La, good sir,” she said airily, “but your Proserpine is garbed as the virgin spring, which befits her name and her nature!”
“Oh, you clever, clever minx!” Runtcock exclaimed, leaping from the bed, while reaching for C.J., who deftly sidestepped the man, causing him to land facedown on a thick bearskin rug.
Runtcock gamely continued to give chase. He was more resilient than C.J. had anticipated. “Those delicious thighs,” he cried, grabbing hold of her upper leg when she paused to catch her breath, using one of the lewdly carved bed pillars for support. Latching on like a leech, the skinny bandylegs forced C.J. onto the mattress, his gnarled, clawlike hand inching higher and higher up her thigh. “Yes, my sweet! It is time to yield your virgin honeypot to Hades!” he panted, his petite member, staunch as it could ever be, flapping pathetically in the air.
C.J. tried to best him, but Runtcock was also stronger than she had assumed. Over and over the mattress they rolled, his lordship tossing a sinewy leg over C.J.’s hip until, at last, she rolled onto the rug and coyly skittered behind the draperies.
“Sweet Proserpine, I must see thy luscious form, those ripe twin globes and virgin forest.” Runtcock, who by now had succeeded in removing his upper garments, baring a rib cage sorely in need of a good meal, lunged for his voluptuous, fully clothed target.
Poking her head out from behind the wine-red velvet swags and pulling her red shawl more tightly about her shoulders, C.J. called out to the flagging Runtcock, “You impugn my modesty, sir. Let us devise a pastime: a game of hide-and-seek. You shall conceal yourself somewhere within this chamber, and once in hiding, count to fifty, after which time you may begin to look for me in my place of concealment. Should you find me, my virginity is yours to ravish.”
The bandylegs rubbed his hands together. “A game! How enchanting! Yes, yes, where can I hide, my little vixen?”
“Sir Runtcock, what about the wardrobe?” C.J. suggested gaily, nodding at a large double-doored armoire large enough to conceal at least two grown persons.
The naked patron appraised the cupboard. “A splendid idea!” he agreed, with more alacrity than C.J. had dared to hope for, and opening the doors, he climbed up into the armoire.
C.J. emerged from behind the drapes. “Now, sir,” she reminded him, “I shall close the doors and you shall count to fifty, during which time I shall conceal my supple virgin body within the room.”
His proximity to her caused Runtcock’s poor excuse for a penis to drool. “I shall count the moments, Proserpine!”
She closed the wardrobe and noiselessly slid the wooden bolt through the loops on each of the gilded doors. A muffled voice counted “one . . . two . . . three . . .” as she picked up her hat and tiptoed across the chamber to the door. As C.J. reached for the cast-iron ring that served as a handle, she heard footsteps and laughter just outside in the corridor and the sound of a body bumping up against the door.
She rushed back to her hiding place behind the velvet swags just in time. A drunken trio staggered into the room, each wielding a jeroboam of champagne from which they swigged large draughts in between fits of hysterical mirth.
Suddenly, the gentleman lurched to a halt in the middle of the bearskin. “I thought this room was empty,” he said with a puzzled expression, gazing at the rumpled bedclothes.
“ ’Tis empty, silly,” burped a luscious redhead, looking about the vacant bedchamber.
“There’s no one here but the three of us, lovey,” added the blonde, naked from the waist up. A tad unsteady on her feet, she tackled the gentleman, who had not quite gotten to the bed, and in one motion the pair slid to the floor, dissolving into a tangle of limbs and a heap of giggles.
“Don’t leave me out!” pouted the redhead, who pounced upon the supine couple and began to fumble with the gentleman’s cravat, while the blond doxy pulled at the redhead’s bodice, loosing her full breasts.
“How perfect!” exclaimed the gentleman, who was made naked in a trice, owing to the deft work of his two lovely handmaidens. His left hand groped for the redhead’s bosom while his right one toyed with the blonde. “One set of pink,” he said, as he suckled the redhead’s erect nipples, “and one of brown,” as he favored the blonde.
Pausing for air, the gentleman complained of a prodigious thirst, which his voluptuous concubines immediately addressed, the blonde holding his lips apart while her confederate doused his gullet with champagne. “Jennet, my witch,” he said drunkenly to the russet-haired beauty, “let’s see if yer a real redhead! And you, Camilla,” he continued, tugging at the blonde’s flimsy frock, “is yer cunny as flaxen as yer hair?”
“Shall we show ’im?” Camilla asked Jennet, laughing raucously.
“It’s what ’e paid for,” the redhead sniggered. Jennet reached across the gentleman’s body and linked arms with Camilla; with astounding and practiced grace, the half-dressed women pulled themselves to their feet. Jennet, the taller of the two, led Camilla to the bed and urged her up onto the mattress and into a supine position. While Camilla languished, her eyes growing heavy lidded and dreamy, Jennet played her bedfellow’s body like a fluid arpeggio, her hands fluttering over her pale throat, down to her firm breasts, teasing her nipples with light flicking strokes, playing over her flat belly, then gracefully sliding Camilla’s diaphanous gown over her thighs, past her well-turned calves and over her dainty ankles.
C.J., undetected behind the deep recesses of the drapery, watched the scene with increasing fascination, as did the patron of the pair of skilled voluptuaries, his eyes shining with boozy lust.
“No tricks at Mrs. Lindsey’s,” cooed Jennet. “Camilla’s beard’s as yellow as August cornsilk.” The redhead’s tapered fingers twined gently through the blonde’s nether curls; and the fair-haired Maja reclined
