Fifty Shades of Victorian Desire

by Davina Charleston

  She was lying, propped up by the pillows, reading ‘Ovid’s Art of Love’, a book I had seen in the library, and during the evening had recommended to her notice.

  ‘Dear Mr. Clinton, I thought I was to come into you.’

  ‘No, my precious,’ said I, ‘the bed is too narrow, and De Vaux sleeps so lightly he might hear us.’

  As I said this I lifted the bed clothes lightly off her, and found that with natural bashfulness she had gone to bed in her drawers.

  ‘Off with those appendages, my love,’ said I.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Clinton, don’t be indecent; my modesty forbids.’

  ‘Julia,’ for I had ascertained her name, ‘take off those stupid hindrances to love’s free play, or, stay, let me take them off for you,’ and you would have laughed to have seen me executing this feat, for I lingered so long round her cunt every time I approached it, that it took me a good five minutes.

  All this time Julia was fairly on heat, for the sight of my huge prick, as upright as a recruiting serjeant, would have excited Minerva herself.

  ‘Now, my darling,’ said I, ‘let us have a little eccentricity. I understand both you and your husband want a youngster; now just tell me does he ever have connection with you except in the old-fashioned way – belly to belly?’

  ‘Never, Mr. Clinton. How can there be any other method.’

  ‘Good God,’ said I, ‘what venal innocence. Look here, my pet, kneel down as if you were praying for a family.’ She did so.

  ‘Now, clutch the iron rail at the foot of the bed, and put the top of your head hard down on this pillow, as if you were going to try to stand on it.’

  ‘My dear, Mr. Clinton, why all these preliminaries; I’m dying for it.’

  ‘You shan’t have long to wait, my pretty one,’ for as she had minutely obeyed my instructions, her fair, round arse towered high in the bed, and I could just see the little seam of her vagina peeping at me from underneath.

  Drawing back my foreskin until my best friend’s topnut stood out like a glistening globe, quivering with excitement, I cautiously approached her, for I would have it understood, gentle reader, that tyros in cohabitation should always be cool when engaged in this particular style of sport.

  ‘Straddle your knees slightly, my sweet one,’ I whispered.

  ‘For God’s sake hasten, Mr. Clinton, this delay is killing me.’

  Drawing back once more to allow the candlelight to play on the spot, so that I could not miss my mark, I bulged forward, and got the tip well placed for the final rush, but Julia anticipated me by suddenly squatting backwards, and for the moment I thought bollocks and all had gone in.

  Then commenced one of the most memorable fucks in my life’s long record, and certainly one of the most pleasurable.

  Every time I felt the inclination to spend I purposely stayed myself on the threshold of bliss in order to prolong it.

  At last, after Julia had saturated me three times, and was beginning to get pumped out, I brought all my forces to the charge, and giving several decisive lunges, which meant mischief, I fairly bathed her womb in boiling sperm, and the way that solid queenlike cunt closed on my prick, and held it as though we twain were one flesh, convinced me that the estate of Oatlands would in less than a year be en fête and the joybells of the old village steeple would ring out to tell of a birth at the Manor House.

  ‘In the meantime what had been going on in my own bedroom?’

  It had fallen out precisely as I had predicted.

  Hannah had sneaked upstairs, and had slid into my bed, and De Vaux, without speaking, had fucked her with the dash and genuine passion born of a three years’ forlorn hope.

  Nor did he discover himself even after it was all over, but having in his ecstasy shagged her twice in ten minutes, he allowed her to escape, merely whispering in her ear, that he hoped she had enjoyed it.

  Hannah, on the contrary, had found out the imposture the moment she got De Vaux’s prick in her. She had never felt but two, the coachman’s and mine, and De Vaux’s, although long and sinewy, was no match for either of ours in point of build, still it was better than not being fucked at all, and as De Vaux’s ardent imagination was riding Mrs. Leveson, the servant got all the benefit, and not only prudently preserved her incognito, but lifted her brawny arse in such rare style that De Vaux was more than satisfied.

  In the morning I went in to see him before proceeding downstairs; he shook hands with me cordially.

  ‘Did she disappoint you?’ asked I, with feigned innocence.

  ‘My dear Clinton, she’s a perfect angel, and you’re a trump.’

  Leveson came back the next day, and I never got another chance of landing Mrs. Leveson, who had fallen enceinte by me, and presented her husband with a son and heir nine months to the day.

  De Vaux fondly imagines the kid must be his, and I am quite willing he should continue to think so, but every time Leveson compares dates he thinks of his night’s stay at Hull, shakes his head, and mutters that ‘it’s damned extraordinary,’ yet he wouldn’t consider it at all extraordinary, if he knew as much as we do, reader. ‘What do you think?’

  ON GAMAHUCHING;

  OR THE MAGIC INFLUENCE OF THE TONGUE

  The ‘gamahuching,’ process should only be employed as a preliminary and never should be permitted to go to the extent of more than starting the tap. No woman living is able to stand a moist and well-trained tongue. Even those in whom desire has long been dead have been known to shriek for the relief which only an erect penis can afford.

  Jack Wilton, the greatest essayist on cunt in an analytical form who ever lived, goes further, and even says – ‘a judicious tongue can galvanize into life a female corpse.’

  This, of course, I do not admit, but there is a well authenticated instance of a Somersetshire farmer’s wife, who had fallen into a trance, and was believed by all her neighbours to be dead, but who was recalled to life simply through the husband giving her fanny one last loving lick.

  It is astonishing how prevalent the habit has become in England of gamahuching, and I would, while touching on it, maintain that there is nothing unnatural in it.

  A tongue, soft and fleshy, fits in the vagina as though made for it, and though it can only titillate the clitoris, it serves the useful office of avant courier to the prick. The proof, if proof were wanting, that there is a distinct physical sympathy between the latter and the tongue, is that in the case of syphilis the tongue is affected almost as soon as the penis shows signs of having made a mistake. The proof again of its being natural to animal life is the fact that if one carefully observes the collection in the Zoo, it will be seen that when the beasts are in dalliance with one another the male invairably licks over the vagina of the female before proceeding to business.

  This is my own observation, and if my readers doubt the statement, a run up to Regent’s Park, and a few hours in front of the cages will generally corroborate it.

  I think to watch a man ‘gamahuching’ a woman is more exciting than to see her being absolutely poked.

  I remember staying on one occasion at an hotel in Paddington where a very pretty chambermaid showed me my room. I had not extinguished my candle more than five minutes before I heard a woman’s voice in the next room, ‘Are you going to sit up reading all night?’

  I couldn’t for the life of me understand this, and thought the wall must be very thin, but it arose from the fact that some distance up the oaken partition there was a hole, caused through a good-sized knot in the wood falling out, and although this hole had a coat hanging in front of it, I very speedily discovered it. It did not take me very long to remove the coat, and I saw the welcome light gleam through. Then, standing on a chair, I applied my eye to the hole, and saw a man leisurely undressing, and a ladylike-looking woman, about thirty, with a splendid head of hair, lying quietly in bed awaiting him.

  Now, thought I, there is going to be some fun, when a slight knock at my own door caused me to get down and open it.

/>   ‘A telegram came for you two hours ago, sir, and they forgot to give it to you at the bar.’

  One moment, my girl,’ said I, hastily slipping on my trousers, and then opening the door, I lighted my candle. The chambermaid was on the point of bolting.

  ‘Don’t go, my girl, said I, hastily, ‘there may be an answer to this, wait until I read it, and listen’ – then, lowering my voice to a significant whisper, ‘if you want to see a sight that will interest and amuse you, get on that chair and peep through the hole.’

  ‘I daren’t, sir, I should lose my situation if anyone were to know I was in a gentleman’s bedroom.’

  ‘I’ll swear I won’t harm you,’ said I, and I really didn’t intend to, for although the girl was a perfect little beauty, only sixteen and a half, I had done a long railway journey that day, and felt knocked up.

  The girl hesitated for a moment, but as sincerity was prominent in the tones of my voice, and she was burning with curiosity to see what was going on, she quietly stepped into the room, and I helped her on to the chair.

  ‘Stay,’ whispered I, ‘the candle must be extinguished, or they may see you, if they have put their’s out.’

  So saying I placed the room in darkness, and then the light streaming through the hole, Mary, for such the soubrette called herself, immediately peeped.

  For at least ten seconds she never stirred, then, getting another chair, and in the darkness nearly falling over the po, I placed it by the side of Mary’s, and stood on it, with one arm round her waist.

  What was going on in the next room I could only guess by the palpitation of Mary’s heart. At last I said, ‘May I peep, my dear?’

  ‘Oh, sir, wait a moment, I never saw such a thing in my life, do wait a moment.’

  ‘Certainly, my angel, if you wish it,’ said I, then taking her hand, which was trembling all over, I gently allowed it to rest on my prick, over which by this time I had lost complete control.

  She clutched it wildly, and passed her hand all round the balls, then pulled the skin back, and so proved to me in less than three seconds that her exclamation just now might be a little bit qualified.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ said she at length, as I passed my hands up her petticoats and found her quim quite damp with excitement, I shall be missed downstairs. I must be going, but I should like to see the end of this.’

  ‘You shall feel the end of this,’ said I, ‘and that’s much more to the purpose.’

  So, helping her down, I lifted her neatly on my bed, and planted it with such force that she cried out with the pain.

  But, whenever I have a new thing in cunts, I am always perfectly reckless of consequences, and so I gave no heed to her ejaculations, but fucked her to the bitter end.

  Yet, although I enjoyed it thoroughly, I question very much whether she did, as the next morning she came to see me in a most disconsolate manner, and said she was afraid she would have to go to the hospital, as I had completely split her up, but a ‘tenner’ soon squared that, and I would remark here that I have introduced this incident merely to show that the sight of a woman being ‘gamahuched’ is far more exciting than witnessing an ordinary fuck.

  Had it been the latter that Mary had glanced at when she mounted the chair, she might have felt a passing interest, but it would have been no novelty. She would probably have called me a dirty beast, fled the apartment, and had a jolly good laugh over the adventure with the cook, but being a new sensation she was glued to the aperture, got excited, and had the implement put in her hand to quiet her.

  It is true that she was a bad judge of size, or she might have hung back, but a split-up cunt is no great misfortune, since once the soreness has passed away it enables a woman to enter upon any amorous encounter without the fear of meeting a foe too big for a fair fight.

  AN ADVENTURE AT FOLKESTONE:

  THE YOUNG WIFE AND HER STEP-DAUGHTER

  Generally I have not been considered a very plucky man, but an event that occurred about this time almost caused me to believe in my own courageous qualities. I have since, however, in reviewing the past, come to the conclusion that it was sheer devilry, and the mad obliviousness of consequences which supervenes when an excited prick will not listen to the calmer instincts of reason.

  I had run down to Folkestone for a brief holiday, and was staying at a large house on the Lees. I had taken the drawing-room floor, which consisted of the drawing room itself, facing the sea, a large bedroom and a smaller one, which I used as a bath and dressing room.

  An old General, who had recently come from India, and who in the days gone by had been accustomed to put up with Mrs. Jordan, the landlady, applied for apartments, but as there were only two rooms to let, and he had a young wife and a grown-up daughter, it was quite impossible to accommodate him. I learnt this accidentally through the landlady’s daughter, with whom I was cultivating an intimacy that I hoped would develop into something sultry eventually, and immediately offered to give up my bedroom and sleep in the dressing room.

  The General was apprised of this, and was naturally enough charmed with my good nature.

  A friendship was struck up over a weed, and the old nabob, in the course of a few days, settled down with his family, to whom he introduced me.

  I did not know which to admire most. The wife, Mrs. Martinet, was a petite blonde, with those lovely violet eyes which change to a grey in the sunlight, just the sort of large reflective orbs historians ascribe to that darling Scottish Queen, who was fonder of a fuck than any woman born since the days of Bathsheba.

  The daughter, Miss Zoe Martinet, was tall and queenlike, dark with the suns of Hindostan, but with a splendid cast of countenance, which seemed to indicate that her Aryan mother had been one of the high caste women of India, who had lapsed with the gay English General when he was plain Colonel Martinet, twenty years before, and while the Grand Cordon and Star of India were unknown to his breast.

  The General was a confiding old fellow, but at sixty-eight one should not trust a wife of twenty-three with a stranger, especially when that stranger boasts a prick which, fully extended and in form, will touch the tape at eight inches.

  Every day we went for long walks, General Martinet was very fond of going over to the officers’ quarters at Shorncliffe, but although Eva and I were frequently left alone, her society and conversation were so intellectual and refined, that I was in a dilemma how to open the ball.

  One day, however, as she sat on the beach sewing, the opportunity occurred.

  ‘What a lovely child,’ said she, as a little girl of some three summers toddled by with a handful of flowers for some waiting mamma.

  ‘Yes, lovely, indeed,’ said I, ‘some day or another I hope to have the pleasure of seeing one with your face and eyes, and if it should be a boy I should take a delight in him for the sake of his mother. You are very fond of children, are you not?’

  ‘Passionately,’ she murmured.

  ‘I thought so,’ I observed, ‘I have often remarked the absorbing interest you appear to take in babies with their nurses on the beach. How long have you been married?’

  ‘Three years’ – this with a sigh.

  ‘Three years, good gracious! what time you have been wasting.’

  She looked down at her embroidery, and became very interested in a wrong stitch.

  ‘It is too bad of the General,’ continued I, ‘much too bad, I don’t think I should have allowed you to wait all this time.’

  ‘Mr. Clinton, what do you mean?’

  ‘Do not feel angry, Eva, for you will forgive my calling you that dear name once in a way, what I mean is this, that you are a woman fond of children, and, therefore, formed to be a mother, and in not obeying the voice of nature, and becoming one, you are offending against the Divine law, which teaches one to procreate.’

  ‘I have tried, Mr. Clinton’ – this in a whisper, with a deep blush – ‘and have failed.’

  ‘Say, rather,’ said I, now thoroughly excited, ‘the General has, and it
is not your fault; but, my dear girl, every man is not verging on threescore and ten, and we have not all, thank God, been desiccated on the scorching plains of Hindostan.’

  ‘Mr. Clinton, do not tempt me?’

  ‘Eva, it is your duty. If the old General were to have a son, your future would be secured. On the other hand what security have you that at the end of a few years he may not die, leaving all his fortune to this half-bred, lady-like daughter, Zoe.’

  ‘That is very true,’ said she, ‘but still I don’t think I could deceive him.’

  Our conversation was prolonged for another half-hour, and when I retired to rest that night I had lovely visions, in which the landlady’s daughter, Zoe, and Eva were all mixed up higgledy-piggledy, but I had an indistinct idea when I awoke that I had not been idle during the night, for I seemed to remember performing on two of them, and it was only the cold sea-water bath that brought me to my senses, and made me lose that great lump of muscle at the bottom of my belly, till I began to believe that I should have had to pick it out with a pin – periwinkle fashion.

  WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS;

  OR BLISS IN AN ARM CHAIR

  The General was a great gourmand, was fond of sitting over his dinner a long time. The following day, after the conversation related in the last chapter, he invited me to share the repast with him, and after the meal regaled me with long stories of his conflict with the Sepoys and other natives of India.

  ‘Why, sir,’ said he to me, pointing to a pair of highly chased revolvers on the mantlepiece, ‘Zoe’s mother once fell into the hands of three vagabonds, and I shot them all, and rescued her with those very weapons, that was how we became acquainted, and I would do as much today, old as I am, to any blackguard who dared insult her daughter.’

  I cordially agreed with him that such would be only a just retribution, but I inwardly added that Zoe’s cunt would be worth running the risk for.