“The beauty of your face,” the baronet said, “is exceeded only by the ravishing loveliness of your body. We shall all here be your subjects,” he continued, “the subjects, at times designated by myself, making appropriate suggestions. Do you understand, Victoria?”
“Quite.” I bent down and fingered Loki's nonmystic maleness.
The dog whimpered a little. Lawrence chuckled. “Milady,” he said, “may I remind you that you are still wearing your summer gloves? I daresay you would have greater effect on Loki if you removed them. The bared hand and the naked mouth are sine non qua stimulants- unless you care to smoke the opium pipe. My apologies for not having mentioned that technique before.” “I know the technique-my brother had me look into a house in Soho, and I don't care to remember the pitiful people there. I don't want to remember anything now, Lawrence.” I knew my green eyes were blazing, my breasts were engorged, the nipples thereon stiff and feverish, and that my pudenda were crackling with heat. Blushing furiously at my stupidity with the gloves, I removed them hastily and tossed them aside. Then, my skull feeling like a drum beaten upon with a steadily remorseless rhythm, I sank to Loki's side, my high breasts quivering. “Loki,” I whispered, and I curved both my hands around his redoubtable prick. He gave a short light bark, lifted his head momentarily to regard me, and then subsided once again to his strange whining as I pulled at his shiny scarlet projectile, his haunches quivering and beginning to push. I brought him rapidly to an orgasm and played his hose over my whole body, with special reference to the little black curls at my groin. The next thing I knew was that Sir Lawrence was completely au naturel, and that his cock could win prizes at international exhibits, even though now only half erect, for length and thickness and sustension, although the latter, of course, had yet to be proven. But the baronet as yet made no direct move toward me. His cock's head drooped. I spread myself before him. My yoni was obviously swollen. “Your requirements are critical, I seem to see,” he said. “But I am not yet ready. I think the best thing you could do, Victoria, is to get on your hands and knees again, arse up.” A tremor shook me. “What are you going to do?” “Do stay calm,” Lawrence said. “I assure you there will be no pain.” My skull pounding, my eyes darkening, my loins painfully aching and throbbing, my breasts prickling, I once again assumed the stance of all fours-facing away from Lawrence and Loki. “That's precisely the way I want you,” the baronet said.
Then Loki began to whimper again, the sound steadily rising.
Inside and outside I was squirming with the tropics. I started to move my whole body backward and forward, backward and forward. “Yes, yes. That's very good,” Sir Lawrence said. Then, quite suddenly, something like a naming dart penetrated my vagina up to the hilt-and rough paws were sliding on my back. I screamed- horror and ecstasy in equal parts. The horror was that I understood the forepaws of the great Dane were on my back, and the ecstasy was that his cock was entering and leaving my vagina at a fantastically fast rate, rubbing constantly along the clitoris. I screamed again, but not from horror.
It was altogether from pleasure in the extreme-and I knew then and there that Victoria Collins, just as Clarissa Quist-Hagen before her, had been fashioned for sheer sexual enjoyment and that her life had been meant to be bounded by it-and spiced, from time to time, with suitable animal equipment. Sir Lawrence Terstyke went down on his own knees by our side to observe Beauty and the Beast in action. As Loki was thrusting-and he was doing so with remarkable rapidity-the baronet muttered, “Give it to her, by God-make mincemeat out of that cunt, doggie.” But while Loki was making mincemeat out of me, I had not yet taken full leave of my senses;' on the contrary, they were preternaturally keen and I saw that the baronet's lingam was in full bloom, and I could compare it only to the mightiest club I had ever encountered between a man's thighs. I waited until Loki erupted in me, like the boiling of the ocean's surf among jagged boulders, and his jism was running thickly down my rippling thighs, and then with an open hand I batted freely at the baronet's club. He roared with pain, backhanded Loki so that the great Dane slunk away, and then flung me on my back. With a cry of rage he plunged into me as if he were a butcher's cleaver determined to sever my crotch both from my torso and my lower limbs. I have never been, before or since, save by Terstyke, so thoroughly plumbed. His was the broom that exhaustively scoured my pantry, his the enormous bristle that on that night kept me in successive waves of shuddering orgasm. Again and yet again he brought me to shrieking climax, and chewed at my nipples as if he would mangle them beyond recognition. And if for a moment he happened to wane, he called for Loki and slammed the dog's cock between my bruised thighs, roaring with laughter as I convulsed and foamed at the mouth and beat at the floor in agonized bliss because the great Dane's prick was ramming me at such high speed. At times Lawrence Terstyke would pull Loki aside and himself receive the dog's hot semen in the mouth, which he would then transfer to my mouth by a kiss, or I would suck off the dog and bathe Sir Lawrence's member in it; and, if the gentleman were fading, my application would recrudesce him. I must confess that the psychic burial of Hugh Kinsteares took place on a most memorable night-my grieving frigidity was smashed to smithereens, never again to be repeated, and that the principal agency in this, at least at the start, was that powerful canine, the great Dane Loki, who had, by the way, amber eyes, like his master. Loki did turn out to be woman's best friend, and I shall be eternally and doggedly grateful. Curse a dog or make light of him in my presence, and you have earned yourself a lifelong enemy. Perhaps some women would similarly stand by a horse, but they must be more extraordinary females than I-I have many times witnessed the turgid prick of the stallion, I have been duly impressed but have never thought, except in my wildest dreams, that I could distend my scabbard sufficiently to accommodate it. Thus, while I believe there is nothing so pleasurable to the senses in this life as sexual congress, I should not want myself torn to pieces on its account.
11
So much for the better parts of Sir Lawrence Terstyke, Bart, Merlin House, Sussex. The morbid parts are swiftly if painfully summed up. While George Maytemper, flushed, as it is said, with success in the provinces, took his troup to London as Mr. George Maytemper and His Players, where they would be engaged in comedy repertory, I pleaded malaise and fatigue to Maytemper before he left for the metropolis, but hoped that he would be accessible to me there once the troup became established, which would surely come about, I told him.
Maytemper was amenable and trusted that I would recover my spirits in due course. I must say that he kept an adroitly straight face-it was common knowledge that I had consented to be Terstyke's mistress.
What nobody was privy to was that since Loki and Sir Lawrence had stoked my carnal fires, I was developing a libidinous-ness incapable of tenninal satisfaction. The onset was gradual, not sudden, and I first became aware of it when, late one evening, Sir Lawrence brought back to Merlin House an overgrown, lumbering youngster obviously addlepated and without average sense. The baronet explained that he had “borrowed” the hulking, smiling youth from one of his gambling friends, a farmer in the district. I was in our bedroom brushing my long black hair when Sir Lawrence appeared with the chap who was quite tall but misshapen, being small in the shoulder and wide in the hip.
“Borrowed you for some milking, eh?” Sir Lawrence said in an overly loud and drunken voice to the lad and proceeded to feel for the youth's phoenix through his strained trousers and then familiarly yanked at it, as though he were ringing for a servant. “Ay, that you done, m'lord,” the lad said, laughing oafishly and nodding his unkempt head, staring at me. I was in negligee and observing their actions in the mirror. I absolutely could not control myself. I turned on the vanity bench, not missing a stroke of the brushing, and slowly crossed my legs, squeezing my thighs together. Naturally the lad saw. I had put it in full view. His jaw lolled and he said to the baronet pitifully, “Pull me some more, m'lord.” I knew I had touched the primeval ooze and would be wallowing in it. It had taken nothing more than a vacant-skulled rustic to arouse me. And as I was aroused, I was descended-I could be as coarse as the most foul-mouthed slattern. “Come here,” I said to the boy. “I'll show you what pulling's like if you've got a cock bigger than a thimble.” Sir Lawrence laughed again, gently patting his own pipe and balls.
The boy approached me diffidently. His blue eyes were watery and there was a sort of whitish cottony fuzz growing on his head.
Altogether unprepossessing except for the doughy balls to be kneaded and the prick to be reamed. Indeed, a mere clod could set me afire. I licked my lips. He forgot to lick Ms-spittle was accumulating at his mouth comers. I grinned wryly- even that did not repel me-the spittle was an extension of semen. “I'll wager you an emerald to match your eyes, Victoria,” the baronet said hoarsely, “that the farmboy will outlast you.” “And if I lose?” I asked as the lumpish bumpkin gazed at us bewilderedly, one of my quivering breasts slipping outside the negligee. “I'll use you as equity at the gaming tables. If the cards come low, you will have a queue to service.”
