by AnonYMous
Am I not fortunate, dear Gussie, to have “Milor” and “Signore” as my two protectors and providers in this delightful resort? So I stood in the peach-yellow sunlight of the Italian afternoon and admired Mr. Bowler's summer premises. Behind the plate-glass windows, the waxy limbs of slim mannequins stood like the figures of an entablature, motionless in morning-gowns or driving-costumes, riding breeches and promenade-dresses, silken tea-gowns or evening satin worn tight and sleek over hips and seat. You may be sure it was not the wax slaves with their innocent eyes and parted lips which had drawn a group of well-dressed gentlemen to admire the display of fashion. Among their cold polished limbs stood another figure whose warm gold skin pulsed a little with the flow of blood and the tremor of passion. It was no other than Miss Jones! It is greatly to your disadvantage, Augustus, that you have never met Miss Jones. I assure you she would soon cure you of your pale mewling attachment to the little strumpet who has had the impudence to seduce your affections at present. They call her Carissima here. How shall I describe Miss Jones to you? She is a randy little wriggler of twenty years old or so. Her figure is neat and its golden skin gives her the look of a Mediterranean or perhaps Egyptian lineage. Though she is English by speech and birth, a serpent of old Nile was perhaps her grandmother. In the tight-lidded slant of her almond eyes, in the long slope of her brown and sharp young nose, there is a hint of passion and perversity. One of her little vanities is to vary the style of her coiffure according to the fashion of her age. At fifteen years old, Miss Jones's dark hair was close-cropped. By seventeen, as if she had passed from being a working-girl to a model of sophistication, it was worn long and put up into an elegant beehive dome on the crown of her head. A year or two more and she preferred it sleek but shorter, brushed back from the tall slope of her forehead and rounded at her nape, for all the world like a randy young temple priestess of Rameses himself. Now her taste has changed again. Her crowning glory is a short upward-brushed crop of lightly curled hair. You may be sure that it was not merely the art of the young coiffeuse which had attracted the attention of these gentlemen in the warm boulevard. Miss Jones was busy among the mute immobile effigies which displayed the creations of Paris and Rome. It was not a labour to be performed in flowing hems and starched petticoats. By no means. This aforesaid “randy little wriggler” had chosen to display herself in a costume which must have stiffened the manhood of every gentleman who passed by. She wore a white blouse which fitted a little too tight for decency. One cannot deny, of course, that it told the world of her pert little breasts, nipples erect from the friction of cotton, and a slim straight back which came down to a narrow waist. You see no great harm in that, Augustus, do you? Many a schoolgirl wears such a blouse. But few beauties of the fourth or fifth forms would dare show themselves dressed from the waist down in Miss Jones's style. The little minx had availed herself of a pair of riding-jeans, which fitted tight as on the hips and thighs of a heroine riding the range!
Indeed, I swear that Miss Jones was deliberately taunting her admirers by wearing pants which were a size too small for her. You may imagine the sight she presented. In England there would have been a complaint to the magistracy and a stop put to such scandalous display.
Happily, we have stronger constitutions here. Some of those who now admired her yearned only for a chance to browse with their lips upon the delicate moulding of her bare brown neck, uncovered by the upward brushing of her dark curls, or to murmur and kiss the neat whorls of her ears with their little pearls at each lobe. The rest stared at her lower limbs and groaned with adoration. In the tight fit of denim, her legs and thighs appeared trim and quite slender, her hips lithe and perfectly rounded. Her warm gold body has the qualities of neatness and energy, a reward which any man might covet. Miss Jones's bottom was perfectly outlined by the tight seat of the denim. Its cheeks are deliciously round, yet taut and resilient, never fat.
Moreover, the pronounced upward branching of her thighs from the knees had a charmingly lewd effect. When she bends or kneels forward, the warm swellings of Miss Jones's buttocks are widely and deeply parted in a most suggestive manner. It will not surprise you, then, that those who now admired her licked their lips and sighed with adoration, each gentleman feeling that the front of his trousers had grown uncomfortably tight. There was one lad, no more than sixteen, who appeared to be carrying in his trouser pocket the head of a very large hammer. Miss Jones stared out across the sunlit promenade, the feline beauty of her almond eyes under their tight lids unmoved by the staring desire of the onlookers. Yet she was not unaware of their helpless longing. She moved about her tasks, walking with a tight little swagger to exaggerate the rounding and twitching of her bum-cheeks, as if mocking those who yearned and moaned. I crossed over to a cafe, just opposite, and ordered tea, so that I might witness the conclusion of this drama without myself being the subject of attention. One by one the men dispersed, having tried in vain to engage Miss Jones's interest by promises of every kind of reward if only she would make them lords of her bed. It was the lad with the hammer in his pocket who remained at last. By this time, the sun was slanting lower above the western hill and shooting with gold the wavelets of the lake. The girl, with a little brush, was brushing up the nap of the felt on the floor where the wax models stood. With the nimbleness of her fine-boned hands she worked energetically, driving the brush round in tight circles. What a view she offered as she worked away vigorously on all fours for the next twenty minutes!
Her head with its dark upswept curls was bowed over the task, allowing only a glimpse of her warm gold features, the sharp young nose or the almond eyes. As she toiled on hands and knees, her back was slim and straight, her waist hollowed downwards a little. The lad at the glass watched open-mouthed and wide-eyed from behind her. In such a posture, the pants-denim was tight and smooth as a skin over the deliciously rounded cheeks of Miss Jones's bottom. Better still, the shape of her figure is such that she appeared to be offering them deliberately parted-a rear access between her legs-to the lad who gazed upon her. The hammerhead in his trouser pocket seemed larger than at first and the industrious boy was evidently trying to polish it a little, as I judged. Throwing discretion to the winds, he moved forward and stood over the minx, as if anxious that she should see his interest in her. A pale dark-haired girl appeared in the shadows of the emporium and said something which attracted Miss Jones's attention. But Miss Jones, randy little piece that she is, merely glanced at the lad and then turned a malicious smile upon the other girl. Unnerved for a moment by the second girl's appearance, the lad withdrew, only to return a moment later to the object of his silent adoration. I saw the pale dark-haired girl, a solemn little spy, reappear and speak to Miss Jones again. I swear I could read the words on her lips. “It's that man, Car'-he's watching you again!” Miss Jones finished her task and stood up. She walked away to where the other girl was standing. If you have any further doubts as to her moral character, lay them to rest. With her back to the lad, Miss Jones bent over tightly, as if offering a final derisive view of what he loved so much, and looked round at the same time to see what effect her display had upon him! The sight of her backside's trim round cheeks presented in so vulgar a manner made him tremble as if in a mild seizure. He turned a moment later, thoughtful and subdued. I was intrigued to see that the hammerhead had vanished as by the wave of a magician's wand. With a malicious light in the catlike beauty of her face and a giggle on her lips, Miss Jones drew back into the shadows. When the randy young bitch returned to the Villa Lola, I had been there some time and was dressing for dinner. Hearing sounds of her in the next bedroom, I could not resist making use of the convenient peep-hole which a previous master had installed. It was not mere voyeurism on my part, Gussie. I had already watched Miss Jones display herself to her admirers in a manner which had clearly given her a secret satisfaction, however much she appeared to scorn their attention. Now I longed to see what the true effect of it would be upon the little wriggler herself. Making not a sound,
I sat on a chair, removed the little round shutter, and applied my eye to the aperture. Miss Jones was standing before the long mirror, admiring herself. The dark slanting eyes with their tight heavy lids were motionless, the tall brow, sharp nose and fine-boned features made a study in immobility and composure. She seemed to hesitate and I wondered if she might restrain her triumph until she received a visit from the man to whose pleasure Mr. Bowler has assigned her. Can you not guess, my dear cousin? It is “Signore,” the sublime poet of Patria and Amore-our neighbour- whose needs Miss Jones serves. Yet he has many calls on his time and might not have had the leisure to ride her round love's steeplechase last night. So it proved to be.
Without drawing her gaze from the contemplation of her own mirrored beauty, she adjusted the three glasses of the dressing-table this way and that. I did not at first understand the purpose of what she was doing. However, Miss Jones undid her working-pants and pushed them down, stepping out of the tangle of cloth which lay about her ankles.
She also unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off so that it fell to the dark richness of the Persian carpet. At last she was naked, like a randy little gold-skinned odalisque or a lewd almond-eyed temple dancer. Then she turned and walked across the room with that tight lascivious little swagger of her trim hips which is her most characteristic movement, I began to understand why she had altered the angles of the triple mirrors on the dressing-table. As she walked, the randy little piece could watch herself reflected from front and rear, thanks to the triple mirror in one corner and a finely framed costume mirror that stood against the opposite wall. She made her way to the long Regency sofa with its thickly padded crimson velvet and its ornamental scroll at one end. It was on this that all the mirrors had been trained. As she lay there, on whichever side, she could see her light gold beauty reflected from the front and the back simultaneously. She stretched out naked on the soft crimson velvet, the upper half of her body turned over a little on her front and one knee drawn up slightly, which gave a delightfully saucy distortion to the perfect shape of her bottom-cheeks. Posing like this, she was the boudoir beauty-lascivious and perverse-of which Romantic Europe has dreamt this past century! There is, to be sure, a perversity in the manner in which Cara Jones uses her body, the lewd postures which she so instinctively adopts. Yet her true perversity is in her cunning young mind. By the aid of the mirrors, she was now using the sight of her own body to excite herself! As she saw the slim upward branching of her Levantine-coloured thighs, her straight slender back and narrow waist, the smooth tan of her trim bottom-cheeks, she began to caress herself gently. At first it was no more than a gentle self-stroking of those parts which are agreeable to stroke-the flanks and belly, a little firming of her nipples between finger and thumb. But the sight of her doing this to herself was as if she had been spying on a pair of lesbian lovers. Unable to resist, Miss Jones slid a hand down and intruded her fingers between her thighs. She manualised with the slow expertise of one who has had ample practice-and expert tuition!-in the art. I have always thought it of the utmost importance that a slave-girl of whatever age should be obliged to self-love regularly and should be taught to do so with skill. It relieves those troublesome feminine tensions and leads to more ready obedience of one's own commands. So, like a lewd little harem wanton, Miss Jones performed upon herself now. Yet I cannot too strongly insist that her pleasure was ten times the greater for being able to see herself do it. She is entirely self-sufficient for she loves no one as intensely as herself. I watched her enjoy the most ecstatic bliss of honeymoon romance with no other person near her. She brought herself off twice, shuddering and groaning, before the time when the maid knocked at her door to announce that dinner was to be served in half an hour. The nimble fingers seemed to heed no warning. They parted the trim gold buttocks, stroked and tickled her between them. They plagued the slippery pussy again and again, tickling the little clitoris until Miss Jones shuddered and groaned with the delicious torment of it. They milked her sly cunt until she threshed and squirmed her thighs on the fine sofa. Once she tried, without success, to spank herself. How eagerly I would have done that to her, for the little bitch made me late for dinner!
Your loving cousin, Maude
IV. Augustus to Lady Maude
Wight, 8 June
My dear Maude, Your two letters arrived together by this morning's post. I do assure you, dearest cousin, that you would never write as you do were you ever to fall truly in love. Such is my case. To you the girl upon whom all my hope is fixed appears no more than a shopkeeper's hireling. How mistaken you are, for you do not know her as I do. She does not haunt your waking dreams as she does mine. Not an hour of the day passes but I see in that mind's eye the slim elfin figure with her blond hair and moody little face-and I breathe the name of Julie. I do not doubt, my dearest, that you would take my family's part against me.
Would you not revert to the topic of my neurasthenia and suggest that I am not fit to control my life in such matters? As soon as your letters arrived, I went into town to search out my beloved image-to whom I had never addressed a single word. How my heart sprang up as I saw her at her work, just as you promised. With far more decency and devotion than the Italian lad in your letter, I gazed through the glass upon the beauty which is all the world to me. She was modestly attired in black dress and coquettish little red shoes. Yet as she stood behind the counter that fine blond hair was spread loose like a veil upon her shoulders. All the primness and knowing-ness of her previous appearance was changed to simple innocence by this alteration. What is the worst one can say of Julie? She has, perhaps, an indifferent and unsmiling air for her customers. Yet I must be more to her than they. There is a hint of sulkiness in the weaker lines of mouth and chin. The nose is perhaps rather sharp and prominent-but is that not the case with your golden-skinned Miss Jones? So you see, Maude, I am not unaware of her blemishes. To me she is beautiful despite them. I stood there and adored her at a distance until I dared do so no longer. I am loath to attract attention to myself and my feelings for this girl. As the patrons of the shop kept her busy, it was impossible for me to enter and engage her in conversation. How then was I to advance my cause? I walked away and took luncheon alone at the Grand Hotel. When it was over, I returned and walked past that window, which is to me almost the gate of paradise. Julie sat on a stool behind the counter, her head bowed as she read one of the books and the fine gold of her hair spilling loose round her face. You see? She is a young person of attainments.
She reads books. How many “shopgirls,” as you term them, indulge in such distractions? Yet still there were too many people in the room to permit me access to her. What then? I must wait until the time came for her to leave. Perhaps I would waylay her. Fall on my knees!
Beg a moment of her attention! But what if she should be escorted from the premises by some duenna? What if a young man who already aspired to remove Julie's knickers for her had a prior claim? The thought overcame me with misery. How could I, with my tormented sensibilities, set up in competition with a hobbledehoy whose brawny lust was to be vented upon this delicious creature? I withdrew and refreshed myself by a glass of Vichy water at the cafe next door. Much of the day was passed in this fashion until the premises closed their door to the public. I had great hopes. Julie would emerge in a moment and, so far as I could see, there was neither duenna nor hobbledehoy lying in wait for her. Still she did not appear. Then, a moment later, I saw her in the shop itself. Though the doors were closed, her day's work had by no means ended. Now she reappeared to stock the shelves with more books after the sales of the previous hours. You may be sure she did not risk ruin to her black dress and red shoes by wearing them as she carried the boxes and the piles of books. Julie was more conveniently dressed in the white blouse and the tight denim breeches of her working-costume. Do you suppose, Maude, that my admiration was blighted by seeing her in such utilitarian garb? Quite the reverse, I assure you! There is nothing like tight denim for revealing such figures as hers.
Julie must be eighteen or nineteen years old and yet her legs and thighs are almost as slender as a child's. She has the flat curve of the belly and the backward jut of the hips which would be more common in a nymph of fourteen, scarcely on the threshold of womanhood. Combined with the way she wore her golden blond hair loose upon her shoulder blades this gives the air of a girl-child to her appearance. How could you doubt her charming innocence, my dear Maude? She turned to contemplate the depleted shelves, the jeans-denim tight and smooth over her slim fragile-looking thighs, though drawn into little sheaves of creases behind her knees. Petite and narrow-hipped though she is, there is almost an impudent little fatness to the cheeks of Julie's bottom!
I gazed through the bookshop window, enraptured by such views of her. How I adored the veil of golden blond hair which sweeps from her high crown to her shoulders! What beauty I saw in the slope of her hazel eyes, seeming all the darker for a touch of the mascara brush to their lashes. Julie, too, has a tall sloping forehead and such a sharp, rather crude young nose. Yet if there is an ugliness in any of this, it is of the kind which provokes rather than repels. She is petite, I suppose. Indeed, only her habit of choosing shoes with spiked heels makes one overlook this. With all her imperfections, I adore her. I find no fault in her at all when I observe that the cheeks of Julie's backside are such fatly rounded little globes. How I longed to feel them smacked and fondled under my hands. Just then, she bent to pick up a box of books and presented her buttocks as neatly and tautly rounded, as deeply separated as any admirer could wish. I will not weary you, my dear Maude, but I stood there a full hour in contemplation, under the pretext of waiting for some companion with whom I had made a rendezvous. Indeed, it was more man an hour before Julie emerged, locked the door behind her, and set off homeward, still in her blouse and denim pants stretched smooth on her lower limbs. How was I to accost her? Upon what pretext could I begin a conversation which was to lead to passionate romance? Of course, I dared not lose sight of her and therefore began to walk in the same direction at a discreet distance behind her, trying to think of the mot juste while my heart seemed ready to burst within me.