Pleasure bound: AFLOAT

By Bacchus, George Reginald

George Reginald Bacchus (1874-1945) was an English author. He was the author of a number of erotic books published by the Erotika Biblion Society. He married Isa Bowman, a former child-actress and friend of Lewis Carroll, in 1899. In 1899-1900 he published a fictionalised version of her life on the stage in Society, a magazine he was editing. Leonard Smithers commissioned a pornographic version which was published as The Confessions of Nemesis Hunt (issued in three volumes 1902, 1903, 1906), the first two volumes printed by Duringe of Paris for Leonard Smithers in London and the last in London.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aegitas
• Release date: Apr 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772466249

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE.

RMS Mesopotamia

It was a rough spring, and after the Mesopotamia had passed the Statue of Liberty and cleared Sandy Hook, she stuck her nose into the Atlantic with a robust determination, which made the purser reflect genially that he was going to save money on the meals.

The company on the liner was varied. There was the usual complement of millionaires, some who worked and some who belonged to the 'Father-made-the-money' club; assorted Anglo-Saxon nobility, quite a number of widows, grass and otherwise; and not a few very dainty American flappers (why is it that Yankee flappers are nicer than English?).

Silas Ahasuerus P. Q. Silverwood stood near the stern and, as the night came down with a rush, gazed at the receding lights of New York, blinking in the gloom. It was his first visit to 'Yerrup', and he was a bit nervous. He had his money sewed into the arse of his pants, and when Miss Sylvania Jepps from Jeppville, Ohio, whom he had met casually at the Waldorf Astoria on the preceding evening and, incidentally, not shared sheets with, sidled up to him, he instinctively covered his bum pocket with a horny and capacious hand.

'Say,' chortled Miss J, 'guess did you ever hear the bright bit about the lady on the herring pond trip, and her diary?'

'Naw.'

'Waal-a fren' o' mine found the book. Listen to the contents.

Jan. 1. Leave NY entrusted to care of captain. Cap. very pleasant and fatherly.

Jan. 2. Cap. more like a brother.

Jan. 3. Cap. tries to kiss me.

Jan. 4. Cap. makes immoral proposals to me. Refuse indignantly.

Jan. 5. Cap. repeats proposals. Threatens if I refuse to sink the ship and the five hundred passengers. Say that I will take my honour and virginity to the bottom of the vast Atlantic rather than consent.

Jan. 6. Cap. repeats threat, and displays tools with which to scuttle the ship.

Jan. 7. Save ship, crew and five hundred passengers.

'Now wasn't that real noble?' concluded Miss Jepps, 'and just the strange thing is that I have the life of this ship in my hands-just the same.'

'Well, you-' began Mr. Silverwood, in an agitated manner.

'Do you think I haven't the interests of humanity at heart? Mr. Silverwood, siree, precisely at 9.30 this evening, on my back I go, on the settee in the Cap's stateroom, open my legs, raise my skirts, and, precisely what he does to the gap nature has left between them is his business, not mine- and the interests of humanity.'

Mr. S began to ponder. He knew a bit about women who were not as pure as supposed, but this was a bit brazen.

'I guess I wish I was the Cap-' he hazarded.

'Mr. S, they tell you are a millionaire?'

'Waal-I have dollars-some.'

'Mr. S, I wish to buy new costumes in Paree. My stateroom is No. 72, and it's three hours before I meet the Cap. I'll just say, au revoir.'

Mr. Silverwood thought hard. He had money, and to spare, and Miss Jepps was very, very tempting. Very petite and dainty, she had a seventeen inch waist, a divine ankle, wore probably a two shoe, to the accompaniment of 5 1/4 gloves, and her face, especially her eyes, was something to dream about.

Half an hour later he was swallowing a Martini cocktail, with a generous drop of absinthe therein, and chatting to the purser. The name of Miss Jepps cropped up.

'Oh, yes, she's a mermaid,' said that worthy.

'A what?'

'A mermaid: guess you know what that is?'

'You don't tell she's really got a tail, and her legs are false!' Mr. Silverwood's eyes bulged.

The purser laughed, and squeezed a little more lemon into his cocktail.

'No, sir,' he said, 'it's apparent you don't know the Atlantic crossing. A mermaid, a merm we call them, is a dear, delightful dot of dimity, who doesn't exactly traverse this boundless waste of wave because she loves it, but because there are gents like you, sir, who have money to spend and want a little occasional diversion. We've had this particular one before. The old man knows her well.'

Mr. Silverwood thought a lot, and wetted his thoughts copiously. He was far too wide to want to get let in by an adventuress, but Miss J was nice.

He left the smoking-room, walked slowly down the promenade deck, and Satan gripped him.

He had more money on him than he really needed for his European tour, to say nothing of letters of credit available all over the continent.

Stateroom No. 72 tempted him like hell.

He went towards the gangway. The phosphorus glinted on the waves; the great liner sang her way through the Atlantic. Mr. Silverwood was not altogether an ordinary millionaire. He had some romance in his ample frame, and the brain dial ticked in the square-jowled head held other thoughts at times than hogs and hams and dividends.

He was an amateur of the beautiful, and his palace by the lake outside the churning turmoil of Chicago held many art treasures. There was a Rape of the Sabines by Morazioff, which people would have paid hundreds to see, and as for the statuettes and bits and things which were kept under lock and key, many an enterprising fellow millionaire had seriously considered a little burglary.

The siren hooted as the Mesopotamia cut down her speed through a big fishing fleet. A great white yacht loomed by like a ghost and loosed her siren in return. Silverwood thought of the siren in stateroom 72, hesitated, and was lost.

Miss Jepps's door was not locked. She whistled quietly an obvious acquiescence when the millionaire knocked-and Silverwood entered.

Miss J obviously expected her visitor, for she made no attempt to disguise the fact that she wasn't even in the middle of her toilet for dinner.

The shaded clusters of electric light-Miss Jepps was not travelling cheap-shone down upon a ravishing little vision. She had her stockings and shoes on-scarlet silk, both-her drawers, with scarlet silk insertions, and a chemise.

That was all.

Mr. Silverwood blinked. Little Miss J was very, very pretty, and the ankles which had made him feverish in the twilight on deck, were now supplemented by deliciously-proportioned calves, which swelled up in graceful curves to delicately moulded knees, not quite covered by the lace frills of the pantalons garnis des rubans ecarlates. There was a little bare, pink flesh above each garter which made the Chicago multimillionaire delirious.

Miss J had a very dainty china-shepherdess skin tint, obviously her own, blue and very bright eyes, naturally her own, and a mass of bronze hair which was open to doubt-at least, so Mr. S decided as he noted the gap in the little darling's drawers which disclosed a forest on her Mount of Venus which was quite a different tint.

She caught his eye, and, with a cheeky grin, put her two bejewelled hands between her thighs.

'Hullo, hullo,' she giggled, 'I know what you're thinking.'

'Well?'

'You're thinking, either my head, or my-what ma's got-is dyed. Well, my