Erotic Books of Our Naughty Ancestors vol.1

We are proud to present the first book of a 20-volume edition of classics of the erotic genre published before World War II. A total of 104 titles are included, most of them from the pen of authors who, for obvious reasons, wished to conceal their real names. This approach, on the other hand, allowed them to give free reins to their unbridled imagination and go wild, so that the eroticism in their works is at times over the top, remaining the benchmark for the authors of contemporary obscene books. Just do not try to repeat the described feats at home.


Well, not all of them.


We've warned you.


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The Life and Adventure of Father Silas (by Beauregard de Farniente)


The Lascivious Monk (by Jean-Charles Gervaise De Latouche)


Memories of Fanny Hill (by John Cleland)


The Amorous Adventures of Margot (by Fougeret de Montbron)


Pleasures and follies (by Restif de la Bretonne)


Confession of the English Traveller (by Jonathan Richardson)


The Lustful Turk (by Anonymous)


The Bagnio Miscellany (by Anonymous)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aegitas
• Release date: Jun 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9780369408693

Book preview

Confessions of an English Traveler

By Jonathan Richardson

1800

Prologue

Looking back over my Life – it has not been a long one and I like to think I am still in my prime – I find it hard to say just when the thought of leaving England first arose in my mind. I only know that when I acquired new lodgings for the third time in two years my restlessness had become acute and could not have been cured.

The new lodgings were neither better nor worse than the ones I had occupied for several months previously. But I had grown morose from looking at the same faces and the same rows of brick-walled houses week after week, and moving about had become a necessity for me. If anything had been needed to add fuel to my discontent, the episode which I have just related had supplied it, and only a drastic break with the past remained as a means of improving my lot.

I had very nearly paid for my recklessness with my life and what had I gained from an encounter behind drawn blinds in the small hours that differed from a hundred others I had enjoyed in recent months? What had I gained that I could look back on as different, as wildly exciting?

True, no two women are alike. But when you have explored all of the possibilities resident in the delectable sex in a city such as London, when you have endured needless bickerings and the striking of bargains in disreputable taverns and poverty-blighted streets your thoughts turn to what might be accomplished in a happier climate under brighter skies.

I had spent most of the morning unpacking. There was an eight-foot-high book cabinet which could be swung out from the wall far enough to flood the shelves with sunlight from the window opposite and I could read the title of each book as I set it down.

Most of the books it would have been unwise to place in the hands of the very young. But few men of learning and wide experience would have thought my collection in any way outrageous, for I have a preference for classic volumes which have stood the test of time, and survived the unjustified attacks so often made upon great literature of a bold and candid nature by narrow-minded Servants of the Crown.

As I placed the books, one by one, on the cabinet's two upper shelves I paused to admire the fine gold-and-leather binding of JUSTINE, and found myself idly flipping a dozen or more pages I had memorized almost line for line.

What a hypocrite De Sade had been, pretending to be morally outraged by practices in which he had himself so frequently indulged that his last years had been spent on a mat of straw in a stone-walled asylum, for offenses which Napoleon had refused to condone, despite the presentation copy which the author had made bold to send him. Yet what a superb intellect the man had possessed, how marvellously he had illuminated the darkest recesses of the human mind!

I had closed JUSTINE with a snap and was chuckling, for the hundredth time, over a passage in Petronius, in which two dissolute wights, fleeing for their lives, take refuge in Roman Bath, and observe there a man whose organ was so huge that his body seemed like a tiny, dangling appendage attached to it – I was chuckling, as I say, over what is perhaps the most amusing passage in the whole of Roman literature when I heard a gentle tapping at the door.

It wasn't the first time that my new landlady had announced her presence in that way. But it was barely eight o'clock and the thought crossed my mind that only a matter of some importance would have brought her to my door at so early an hour.

I walked to the door and opened it and she slipped quickly into the room.

This letter just came, she said, extending an envelope bearing a small black postal stamp in its upper right hand corner, and looking at me almost guiltily, as if half-suspecting that I would be somewhat puzzled by her promptness in delivering a letter that might not be of the least importance.

Bless the hearts of all new landladies, and bless them again for the curious interest which they display toward every newcomer to the field of combat most dear to their hearts. They take it for granted that no man – be he young or old, or hobbling about on crutches – will find himself incapable of a truly prodigious performance when the shades are drawn and he is given a proper degree of encouragement.

I, for one, have never needed encouragement in that respect. But if women were not so amiably disposed for the most part when a newcomer arrives on the field of battle even the boldest of us might experience qualms and hesitate to exhibit a corresponding degree of audacity.

It is so false, so completely contrary to what I have myself observed all of my life to believe that women must invariably be coaxed and flattered and pursued with tireless persistence to yield to a man intent on seduction! No more than a knowing and ardent glance is needed to break down all of their defenses. Whatever remains after that is pretense solely, and one can shatter pretense as though it were a feather. And if there are a few women who are capable of remaining icily contemptuous and unyielding, one can be sure they are not women a man of parts would choose as a partner in bed-chamber delights.

I was expecting this letter, I said, to put her at her ease. It was kind of you to bring it to me the instant it arrived.

For a moment she just stood looking at me, as if she did not quite know what to say in reply. She could not have been more than twenty-five and was quite possibly three or four years younger. She had beautiful hair, a dark, silky brown and it descended to her shoulders. But what I liked most about her were her sturdy legs, ample bosom and fresh complexion, which gave her the look of a country girl, wholesome and unspoiled.

Her bodice was loosened and her chemise was parted just above the twin mounds of her breasts. But though I could not see more than the upper part of their swelling curvature I was almost sure that the nipples would be rosy-pink and would stiffen the instant I touched them.

The first move is always crucial, for there are women who prefer a quick thrust bosomward by an impetuously exploring hand, and others the titillation of a hand somewhat more audacious moving quickly upwards from knee to thigh to the enchanted circle itself.

The elaborate and voluptuous variations which follow success may take many forms. But that does not diminish the importance of the first bold move in paving the way for a complete conquest.

I decided to be less bold than I might have been if I had been entirely sure that she had tapped on my door with only one thought in mind – to find out if the new lodger was amorously inclined. Perhaps she had delivered the letter solely out of kindness, and I was not so base as to repay an act of kindness with lovemaking, inflamed by bawdy thoughts, that might come as a rude shock to her.

If I had put my hand immediately beneath her clothes and refused to remove it a struggle might have ensued. But at least – if I had proceeded thus quickly to intimacies which would have resolved all doubt – I would have known where I stood and the chances were high that I would have been conducted, by moans of pleasure and many grateful sighs, into a garden of delight, ringed around with the loveliest of flowering plants.

Still – I decided for once to shun all rudeness and a too abrupt attempt to find out if her inclinations were as I had pictured them, if only because she had looked at me so trustingly when I had taken the letter from her hand.

Won't you sit down for a moment? I said, drawing a chair toward her, and removing from it three books which I found myself wishing she could have read.

It seems a pity, I went on earnestly, that so much work should be required of you when an older woman, with her youth already spent, would not find housekeeping tasks half as burdensome. Such tasks make the young and gay of heart feel that they are being cheated of happiness, and rightly so. Could not your father afford to employ a housekeeper, to assist you at least? With five lodgers...

She sat down and shook her head, a look of sadness coming into her eyes.

My father is quite poor, she said. Did you not know that? It is true we own this house. But it is heavily mortgaged and he has been out of work for several months.

I drew close to her and let my hand rest lightly on her shoulder, feeling that the time for boldness had come.

I am sorry, I said. I thought that your father was a man of considerable wealth.

She looked at me quickly, then dropped her eyes and for a moment we were both silent. Then a blush crept over her face, startling me.

I thought at first that it was just my sudden closeness that brought a flush to her cheeks, the unexpected touch of my hand. Then I realized that my engine had begun to stiffen and I could not control its rising – a rising she could hardly have failed to notice.

A wave of mad desire swept over me and my hand left her shoulder and went exploring beneath her chemise, cupping her right breast very firmly for an instant and then quickly releasing it.

To my astonishment she said not a word, but sat perfectly still, as if she had anticipated the swift descent of my hand and neither resented nor took pleasure in it.

Having gone so far I saw no reason to desist and lowering my head began passionately to kiss her neck and shoulders, while my hand descended for the second time, and took firm hold of her breast. This time I squeezed it, and ran my forefinger back and forth across her nipple to see if it had hardened. Seemingly it had, but only slightly, and the stiffening could have been caused by nothing more than the friction of my digital massage.

It was strange and disappointing, for all this time she had said not a word. Had I started in the wrong way and could it be that she resented the fact that I had not immediately raised her dress and exposed more fully the beautifully shaped limbs whose country girl sturdiness I had so much admired? Had she been secretly hoping that I would explore their whiteness as well, and that my hand would travel swiftly up her thighs until it came to rest on a moist and hairy mound? Had she been anticipating just such a caress?

She still had said not a word, and my libidinousness had now become so fierce that I could no longer continue with the fondling of her breasts and the mere planting of kisses on her shoulders as I sought to arouse in her a responsiveness that she seemed totally to lack.

You are very beautiful, my dear, I whispered and would have waited a few seconds longer if she had not remained as stonily impassive as a mannequin beneath the administrations of a dressmaker whose only concern is the proper fitting of clothes on a form that is the opposite of alive.

She spoke then, for the first time. What you are doing is silly, she said. If you must have me, the sofa is the best place for it.

Amazed and no longer able to contain myself – my instrument was as stiff as a board – I turned her around and rained kisses all over her face and throat. Then I took her by the arm, guided her to the sofa and pushed her back upon it.

When I started to raise her dress she gripped my wrist tightly and I thought for a moment she was intent on forcing me to desist before my hand traveled to her cleft or I straightway mounted her. But no – her intention was quite otherwise. She guided my hand upwards until my fingers became entwined in Venushair, and assisted me as well by pulling up her dress until none of her charms remained hidden, from her ankles to her opened thighs.

What happened then was accomplished more quickly than I could have wished, but I was beside myself with desire for her and could no longer exercise restraint.

I mounted her without first exploring the circle of delight and we were so quickly entwined that when the violence of our movements increased we reached a climax simultaneously and she relaxed with a long-drawn sigh.

She did not move again until I arose without looking at her – just why I could not have said – and walked across the room to the washstand to apply lavage to my now limp member. I heard her stirring on the sofa, but did not turn until she said: I must go now. Father will be wondering why I have remained so long in your room when I came only to deliver a letter.

She was sitting up when I swung about to face her, her clothes completely rearranged and a look ,in her eyes that astonished me. I can only describe it as coldly calculating.

Before I could reply she went on quickly: I have not attempted to hide anything from you. My father, as I have said, is desperately poor and the rent which he receives from the rooms he has been forced to let out barely pays for what is taken from us in taxes. Do you think – I know that you are a gentlemen of modest means – that two crowns would be too much to ask for the pleasure I have just afforded you?

I saw then that she was holding out her hand – actually extending it toward me – as if in anticipation of a bounty she seemed convinced would be forthcoming.

Cursing myself for a fool, and making no attempt to hide the rage that had come upon me, I unlocked my writing desk, removed the two crowns from an upper drawer, and placed them on her palm, closing her fingers tightly over them.

Here, my girl, I said. I am far from convinced that your father would go to the poorhouse if your lodgers were less generous. But I have never failed to pay a debt of this nature, for I am a man of conscience, and you did indeed render me some pleasure.

I expected that she would leap up, and depart in sullen anger, for what I had said was more than insulting. But to my great surprise she merely smiled amiably, arose and walked out of the room without a backward glance, closing the door firmly behind her.

For five full minutes I paced the floor, with steadily mounting bitterness. I had made the mistake of thinking that, however amorously inclined she may have been, there was no trace of whorish-ness in her nature and her initial silence and blushing response to my restrained attempts at seduction had strengthened my belief in her innocence. The wanton way she had behaved on the sofa had not dispelled that belief, for I had assumed that she had been carried away by the passion my less restrained love-making had aroused in her and had pursued her pleasure, as I had mine, with no thought of commercial gain.

It was another reason, surely, for wishing to put London forever behind me – for three or four years, at the very least. I had had my fill of London women, successful as most of my conquests had been. All too often when you thought them generous to a fault, responsive to your every whim, tender and yielding, they turned out to be either whores at heart, or capable of limitless cruelty. Even whores can bestow upon a man an infinite variety of pleasures and for their many kindnesses I was profoundly grateful. I would have that clearly understood. I adore all women and would rather die in the embrace of a strumpet with no kindness in her nature than live in a world without women.

But must London forever keep a man from traveling a wider road to paradise, must the whims of English women alone concern him night and day, and inflict, for all the rapture that they bestow, a corresponding degree of torment?

I have often thought that the fog which has enshrouded London so many months in every year of which we have knowledge – was there ever a time when London was bathed in continuous sunlight? – has laid a curse upon all lovemaking, making it secretive and much too furtive, despite everything that has been written and said to the contrary.

The wide world beckoned, where kisses were more freely bestowed than anywhere in Europe and a man was not required to walk a tightrope between desire and satiety.

I thought of the women who live in cages in the larger cities of the South American continent and paint their faces blue, red and yellow. How strange and fascinating it must be to stop before such a cage on a street of prostitutes and look into the amorous eyes of women so exotic in aspect? Why should rouge alone be used by English women who pursue the same profession in a less inventive way?

Variety and change – what was to prevent me from taking full advantage of my modest but by no means niggardly income to enlarge my knowledge of how the most ancient of games is played, where all of our English rules are laughed to scorn?

And why should they not be laughed to scorn, when it is only when one ceases to kneel in fear before the pleasure-destroying scepter of a knavish fool in a land where Fog is King that one is free to be driven wild by the many delights of the dark and rejoice in the strength and persistence of that most untiring instrument of pleasure that has been given many names, but none that I like better than the Jolly Playfellow. In England it is often the opposite of jolly when it is inserted in a wench who lives in fear and trembling, dreading every knock on the door and as often as not holding out her hand for a crown or a farthing when the play is ended, precisely as my late visitor had done.

Pay and be gone is as often the rule as the exception, and nothing can make a fine upstanding member shrink more quickly and refuse to rise again than the impatience or scorn of a cruelly calculating woman, submitting with feigned pleasure to embraces she would prefer to have quickly ended.

I suddenly remembered the letter I had taken from the greedy-fingered hand of my early morning visitor, before closing that same hand over the two silver coins which were the price of her hire, and crossed the room to the desktop on which it was lying.

I picked it up and tore it open, after first noting that it was postmarked five weeks previously. How long, I wondered, does a letter customarily take to cross the Atlantic in a fast clipper ship? Surely I should have known, and yet I did not, despite the many times I had stood on a London dock waving goodbye to friends bound for America, and how often my eyes had strayed over the arrival and departure listings of just such ships in London newspapers.

It proved that I was not quite the man of the world I prided myself on being, for to possess knowledge of such matters is taken as an indication that one is accustomed to traveling widely, by both land and sea, and in drawing room conversation nothing more immediately stamps a man as wise in the ways of the world than to have such information at his fingertips.

The letter was briefer than I had thought it might be. But it left me in no doubt as to the cordiality of the welcome I would receive if I joined an old and trusted friend in the West Indies, in a business venture we had discussed at some length before his departure from England.

To many Englishmen the West Indies conjure up a vision of lepers and cathedral bells, and gaunt, famine-starved men and women, pitifully in need of the many blessings of civilization which Europeans take for granted, although I have seen just as much wretched poverty in the streets of London.

To me those sun-bright islands conjured up a quite different vision. It was of large-breasted women, gaily attired and balancing market baskets on their heads and fording many a stream with their skirts raised above their knees, even pausing to remove all of their clothes in the noonday heat to bathe completely naked and let male passersby contemplate the joy of having them until their loins ached and their members grew as rigid as battering rams.

As I stood reading my friend's letter for the third time I could picture myself already on shipboard, as I knew I soon should be, with the salt sea air in my nostrils, and with the unmourned London skyline dissolving in the fog.

The following curious document was found attached to the original manuscript of Jonathan Richardson's diary.

Episode One

I shall try to write in bold, short sentences. Many of my contemporaries write in long, involved – and to me, rather boring – sentences. I shall try to avoid this practice.

I shall begin with me unlacing my breeches, preparatory to mounting the comely wench who lay on my bed, skirts raised and with dawn just breaking outside the window to give sufficient light to enable me to see the most delectable part of her.

Then it was that I remembered the book.

What book? my reader will ask, so I shall endeavor to explain fully.

The book contained confessions. My uncle had given it to me a few days before when he'd departed on his third trip to the West Indies. I was to deliver it to a certain Thomas Matthews, Esquire, whose address my uncle had laboriously transcribed for me.

I had read two chapters of these confessions this morning early and the result was that here I was in this wench's chamber, ridding myself of my breeches, my eyes loving her blonde thatch of hair nestled and enticing me from beneath her luscious creamwhite thighs.

Poor Uncle, I thought. If only he knew what a bad example he has set for me. Had I not read the first two chapters of those bawdy confessions I'd not be here in this place so early in the morning, but those chapters excited me outrageously.

Had it not been for the confessions I would have waited at least until noon, Uncle.

What do you smile about, my love?

The words came from the red lips of my little friend who lay waiting my manhood, her blonde forest of pubic hair glowing like sunburst between her widely spread legs.

I looked down. My tool stood erect, ready for female entrance – a vibrant, husky machine of a young, healthy Englishman, a loyal subject of the Crown.

Why do you stare at my precious commodity, my dear? I asked. Surely you have seen a man's rigidity before?

She laughed in her throaty, prostitute voice. Ah, I have seen far, far too many, perhaps? Her blue eyes glowed with mirth and desire. Some, though have been so flabby, so wrinkled – well, one would hardly think of them as tools, m'lord.

Would you label mine flabby and wrinkled? I challenged.

She leaned from bed. I felt her sweet hot lips brush the tip of my bayonet. A fleeting, loving gesture-warm, clasping lips, a hand lightly brushing my left buttock before falling and she lying there, eyes loving my burgeoning erection.

Ah, sometimes I think I have seen too many, she murmured in repetition. Yours is so smooth, so polished and-oh, quite, quite large. When you chisel with it do the splinters fly?

I laughed softly. Well spoken, wench. Life is full of surprises. I would wager that you could match wits with a Lady in Waiting to Her Majesty, what?

If I were such a Lady the good Queen would empty a full chamber pot over my errant head, my lovely companion said, laughing. She then began to squirm on the bed, a look of savage impatience coming into her eyes as she held out her soft arms to me.

I am only a toy of pleasure, m'lord. But, when your staff goes into me, its delectable penetration will make me forget I am of the other side, will it not?

I shall try, m'angel, I promised.

Come, sweet lover, and pierce me. I am a whore at heart, born to the prong of a man – and enjoy each sticking. Oh, my god, m'lord...

Her hand now lay on my organ, holding it even more protruding, but it had taken a life of its own, and would leap ahead of me into her like a little man, booted and spurred and riding red-coated to the baying hounds – riding in haste and avid with desire.

I ascended the bed. I positioned my eager body between her upraised, spread out legs. My blade ached to penetrate the hairy nether walls, to lance itself into her vulva in deep eagerness.

Her deep breathing boosted and let fall her full breasts, dark of nipple and with said button standing upward, begging for my sucking lips. With a wild cry of sheer happiness, she steered my lance into her hair-rimmed and hungry cleft.

No need was there to part her nether lips with my fingers, to dampen with her own fluids the sides of those lips. Now did I need to bare her clitoris, preparatory to laying my pulsing knob against its damp curvature to bring its secretions and loveliness to trembling culmination.

So adroit were her womanly accomplishments that I was instantly within her feeling my bulb storm the very portals of her womb, for I am long of penis and big around – in fact, I am proud of my largeness, but any man would have that right were he so equipped as I.

Thus I rode her with a suddenness, my knob deep within her warmth, her nether lips grabbing my shaft and releasing it as she gasped in pure joy, eyes closed and lips open to show her shiny, even white teeth.

Bliss was scrawled on her lovely face. The best position in the world a woman can assume, she said gaspingly. "To your rocks, m'lord, to your balls, m'lord! Feed me all your cock, m'lord. Ah, you break against the gate of my womb and I come, m'lord.

My god, I bathe your plunging shaft with my whiteness. How grabs my lips, m'lord? Am I not a whore worthy of her hire, and then more than that?

I didn't answer. The reason was simple. My head was buried against her left high breasts, her sweet nipple playing in my damp, trembling mouth.

My laving mouth pulled her nipple far out, her hips working in unison against mine as my sword entered and rose, her cunt hanging tightly to it in sexual loveliness. I now abandoned her nipple and sought instead her rosebud mouth, finding it in damp beauty, and my tongue penetrated her mouth, washing and loving her tongue, which met mine in sweet and hot duel of love.

With my mouth loving every crevice of her mouth, with my prick moving up and down and her grasping it, pulling it – why, a wine cask could not have been more securely stoppered!

But a wine cask does not jerk and go limp and jerk again in convulsive spasms, and neither do wine casks lash furiously about as her hips and body were now doing.

For one long moment, when my knob hung only in her damp tight cunt, I had a wild desire to withdraw from her and pierce her in the anus, fucking her as did the male homosexuals, one on the other with the top one having his knob in the other's asshole.

Then her hips came slashing up, grabbing my cock and pulling it deep inside her and, as my knob stormed the gate of her womb, her hips twisted this way, then that, and then twisted back, and my prick tingled with savage, inhuman delight.

I closed my eyes, mouth still on hers. We fucked then, fucked thoroughly, fucked happily, fucked deeply – and we didn't care if we were in love or not, and we were not in love, of course.

We just were two happy humans, one fucking the other, the other fucking the one – and I felt my rocks sink back and up, my semen trembling in them to launch itself soon in this hot, hugging cunt.

And she, feeling the stiffness grow, good young whore that she was, sensed I was ready to breed her, and she began to thrash with renewed violence – a violence so great I thought, for one moment, she would topple from her bed to the floor, taking me down crashingly with her.

I rode her, grasping her rounded, firm buttocks, my fingers braced in her spreading crack, my thumbs resting on her asshole. The violence of her increased as her ovaries broke into roaring climax.

I felt her white expression hit my prick, my cock loving each stroke into her dampness. Her legs, soft and yielding, circled my buttocks, pulling my cock down even deeper into her womanhood.

I felt sucked into her. I was the son, the heir, trying desperately and foolishly to climb back into the only security I'd ever known – the red warmness of the womb.

She was the mother, the producer of man, and she wanted me again in her damp womb, nestled and circled and secure.

Yes, she was like the sea – the eternal mother of men. And her saw, her personality, her lunging, grabbing hips, was a vortex, sucking me down, down, down – and then my testicles, rising to the occasion, spewed into her my semen, white and moist and much.

I went in great, gulping spasms. I stopped going, and then I started again; she milked my prick, pulling and massaging like the milkmaid stripping the last of the milk from a patient cow.

I was on trial. My manhood was on trial. I punched and grabbed, my fingers now deep in her crack, my thumbs unconsciously entering her lunging, opening and closing asshole.

I come, I come, I muttered, my ears roaring, the world a dark place slashed by naked, jagged lightning. Thus did my manhood leave my rocks, finding sweet haven in her vagina.

Finally, we began to quiet, our hips settling down, then quitting. And she smiled up at me, teeth flashing.

We fuck good together. Perhaps I am with child. I shall not rebel, for the child came from a good father.

I thank you, I said, my cock going limp, her warmness receding, my penis pulling back, expended.

We should fuck again, she said. I am just a whore but I know a master cocksman when he has his tool between my hips. There are tricks I can teach you, m'lord.

Such as what? She challenged me. I knew some tricks, too.

She smiled up at me. I was on elbows, leaning less hard on her nipples, which had become softer, passion being expended.

You have entered up the – well, the rectum?

One of my favorite methods, I said. The anus – ah, let's be blunt and call it the asshole, huh? – has much muscles.

I have a very developed asshole, m'lord. I could fairly pull your sword from out of its sheath, I promise.

I must rest for a moment, then we shall try that method.

The madam – a floozy bitch with dyed red hair-stuck her head in the door. You have an old client awaiting in the other bedroom, my whore, she told my bought woman. I shall tend to him.

The red ugly head disappeared? the door closed softly. Leave my money on the table, the little girl said. Now, I must tend to my other client. Then I shall come to you, m'lord, for a delightful hour of anal penetration, to cite it politely.

I shall be recharged by then, I assured.

I must rise, m'lord, and you are heavy on me. And I cannot rise, you know, with you still on me, and I have another request to make that I hope does not anger you, m'lord.

Another request, lady? I asked, puzzled.

Yes. I cannot rise with you having both your thumbs impaling my asshole, you know.

I realized, for the first time, where my thumbs were buried. I laughed. She laughed. I removed my thumbs from her asshole and my body from off her breasts.

She clambered from the bed, whiteness rimming her cunt. She squatted over a washbasin, splashed a bit of water upward, and then wiped, her hair glistening brilliantly under the water's protective coat.

Soon I shall return for what you know what, m'lord.

I shall wait.

I want the coins on the table when I return, or there shall be no anal penetration. One must eat and pay, you know.

My coins shall be there, I assured.

She bent then, breasts sagging, and her lips brushed the tip of my limp, sunken penis. Little darling, I shall make you rise again.

Then she was gone, naked, her back to me, buttocks rising, falling, and I saw her asshole occasionally. She went through a door to another room, and the last I saw of her, at that time, was the flashing of her full hips.

My semen rested within those sweet hips. It lay along her vagina, close to the door of her womb, and was it mingled, even now, in reproduction with her discharges, abundant and hot?

Absently, I raised my right thumb. I noticed it was brown. It smelled of her body, her sexual apparatus. I thought of my cocksman uncle, and pride swelled me, for had my uncle seen me fucking he would have exclaimed, Well done, well done, nephew. I have taught you well, have I not?

Unconsciously, I began licking my thumb.

And I loved what I licked...

The Second Episode

I have an acquaintance who is a published author of romances. He is an insufferable bore. He arrives unannounced at all hours. This particular day he arrived at eleven something in the morning, just as I was donning my clothes.

Why do you sleep so late? he asked.

Because I want to, I replied, pulling on hose.

Were you sleeping with a woman last night?

I looked sharply at him. How had he guessed the truth? Only by pure coincidence, I realized, and then I realized, also, that perhaps, at long last, I was getting the reputation of being a cocksman. My dead father – and my beloved uncle in the West Indies – had great and strong reputations throughout London as superb cocksmen.

Why should I – an unmarried man – be in bed with a woman? I asked innocently. Men and women sleep together only after marriage, you know.

He laughed uproariously, head thrown back. That element exists only in my stupid – but well-paying – novels, you know. I stood up and I caught him admiring my dangling long penis.

Was that jealousy lurking in his slitted eyes? I am very proud, of course, of my penis, for when erected it is a huge tool, even if I do in all modesty make such a statement myself.

I am not alone in saying my erection is very long – extra-long – and very huge – extra huge, in fact. Various women, whores and respectable, can point to the same truth, and have done so to me on more than one occasion.

How many women have you now delved that enormous thing into? the writer asked, completely without modesty – a trait, they tell me, of authors.

But one must have patience with idiots and authors, I have been told. I do not keep a stud book.

Speaking of books, I understand you are writing a book?

How had he heard of this? I knew, instantly. While in bed with my head maid – a buxom, tight-cunted female – I had inadvertently, in the height of sexual passion, admitted I did some writing in my spare time.

She, in turn, had passed this on to this author's maid, for servants never keep secrets (are they supposed to?) and know what is happening in a house long before the master knows... in many cases.

Yes, I dabble at scribbling.

You should have a solid strong plot and good characterization, and my friend was off on a tirade about writing, something each author loves to talk about – the only thing one will talk about, in fact.

I did not tell him that my writing was not a book but a series of episodes, the most interesting that had happened to me in my twenty-eight years on this earth.

And let's face it, gentle reader – the most interesting things that happen to a cocksman – or an ordinary man – are concerned with the female sex, unless one is a 'man's man' similar to the crumbling animals parading as men who hang around Soho and Charing Cross.

And I would judge that the most interesting points in the life of a human female would be when impaled on the tip of a man's penis, rigid and round and sliding slowly into the warm depths of her vagina to storm the very gates of her fluid secreting womb, are they not?

You appear tired, my friend finally said, having finished a twenty-three minute lecture on the art of creative writing.

I chuckled inwardly but did not relate to him what had happened last night, and my blood went cold again with fear – for who cares to face a loaded horse pistol – and death – over no more than a woman's buttocks, plunging downward and then rising to massage to jetting expression a man's hard bayonet.

I slept well last night, thank you.

Finally, the bore left. I sipped my tea, thinking of Lady Haversock's creamy buttocks, my hands curved and grasping under them, my forefingers playing in her anus.

My erection grew, for I have a powerful imagination. I summoned my head maid to my bedroom and she came willingly, for she is truly a lover of the cock – the more penis she gets, the more she wants.

I shall not bore my reader with stupid details. I shall state only that she came purring into my arms, her nipples already hard beneath her starched uniform, and her hips moved in and back, pushing against my cock and driving my testicles to demanding the use of her wide and strong hips.

When I untied her belt, her uniform fell open and, lo and behold, she wore nothing under it but herself, huge of breast, dark and protruding of nipple, her navel clean and sweet as Eve's goblet. And below her lovely navel was the flat top line of her very dense black pubic hair for she was very hirsute, her anus being ringed with long silky hair, an odd thing for invariably assholes carry short, broken, stubby stiff hair.

While I had divested her of clothing, she had done the same to me and now she gripped my sword, sliding the foreskin back and forth, her soft hand loving my bulb, playing with my pee-hole.

We were kissing stronger now. I knew this was an error but passion holds me swiftly and twists me into a supple servant not to my thoughts but to my testicles. One should not kiss and make love to a hireling such as a maid, you know.

One should fuck one's maids – or other household female help – without compunction, for they are of the low caste, you know, and expect only fucking from their master – not kisses and playing with breasts, as I now foolishly did to this big-breasted, cock-hungry English wench.

A cocksman – what an uncouth word – should save his love making and kisses for the genteel, the lovely, the pure – such as Lady Haversock, small and dainty and with sugar sweetness of manner, not for a torrid house-wench.

Again, I remembered Her Ladyship's wide but solid buttocks, white and dainty, with their huge forest of dark pubic hair hiding her sweet small cunt that had not produced an heir for Lord Haversock, much as he publicly declared he wished his wife with child.

Again, I remembered the horse pistol. I heard its explosion again, cutting hard the London fog. At that moment I must have shuddered for my maid murmured, Darling, are you cold? You shivered. Or does the lust for my thighs burn my Master's soul, making him rough and ready for our sweet secret session of love?

I stand five eleven in stocking feet and she but a mere five two or three, but she somehow leaped upward, my cock in her hand and, as she came down, I jabbed her momentarily in her thatch.

I felt the soft, damp edges of her vulva, and then her cunt had slid past and she stood on all fours. I put my arm around her naked waist and naked we two walked to my huge bed.

As we walked, I glanced back. The full mirror showed us clearly – my narrow buttocks, her womanly buttocks. Her buttocks lifted, fell, danced, pivoted with each mincing step.

Watching, I ran my hand behind her and my thumb, separating her buttocks, found her warm full anus, tickling it with my nail. She grabbed me harder, not realizing I watched her ass wriggle and attempt to have my thumb inserted in her asshole.

M'lord...

Yes, m'bitch?

Does m'lord wish to fuck me in the asshole?

Foul mouthed whore! Low lived, without education, culture – and then I remembered last night on top of naked Lady Haversock, my prick in her to the testicles, and her Ladyship panting, "Fuck me harder, my love! Deeper, deeper, into my cunt – oh, give me all your cock, my sweet.

And when we get done this way, drive it up my ass. Put that big knob in my asshole. I want to feel your cock slide in and out of my rectum, my sweet, my long-cocked love!

Lady Haversock's panting made this maid's most fluent cursing seem like a Sunday school session....

Do you want it first up your ass? I asked, realizing that I, under passion's panting lash, talked as foul of mouth as did this prick-starved wench.

Yes, up the asshole, for it tickles so good around the hairs, m'lord. But you must keep a finger in my cunt and stroke my Little Gentleman and anger him so much he spits whiteness back at you, for the purpose of getting fucked is to have an orgasm, you know.

She broke from me and ran around my bed, which is placed in the middle of my big room in my huge apartment – for my father left me this apartment house, and its income is good each month.

Grab me, darling, she panted.

I ran after her, cock extended. It was a game we played. I knew full well what she wanted. She circled the huge bed twice before I caught her. I did not catch her in normal fashion, by the shoulders or waist.

I captured her in our own special way. I ran with thumb up and forefinger extended. My forefinger ran between her thighs. I crooked it and caught it in her already flowing cunt.

Simultaneously, my thumb lanced ahead. It broke through the crack of her buttocks. I felt her asshole and then my thumb was deep in her anus. I held her the way the Italians hold their pichoco balls, a thumb in one hole, a forefinger in the other.

Woe unto me, she cried happily.

She tried to move ahead. I held her sternly. Her bare feet slipped on the heavy and thick Madras carpet. I pulled her toward the bed. Her buttocks came with mock unwillingness.

Bodily, I swung her naked loveliness onto the bed on all fours, her delectable rump sticking upward, crack gaping open, my thumb surrounded by her long anal hair Within seconds, I was between her spread legs, my prick pushing against the bottom of her crack.

She had her head on her folded arms. I saw her cunt, sweet and small, nestled enticingly in the curly hair, and for a moment I pushed my rigid tool against it, parting it until only my knob rested in her damp vagina, her cunt's lips closing and opening around my bulb.

M'lord?

Yes, wench?

I wish to lave your thumb with my tongue, m'lord?

Which thumb? I teased.

The one now in my asshole, m'lord.

She loved her own excrement. I must admit, in all fairness, that her anal discharge smelled better than most; indeed, during passion's high dizzy heights I myself had sampled it, and found it to my liking.

Do you want my thumb to quit your asshole? I further teased.

Yes, but you must replace it with your cock, m'lord. And use no lubricant or grease from the drawer of your bedstand, m'lord. I love the pain of your huge member tearing into my asshole, m'lord.

I prefer lubricant, wench, I said, for sometimes it hurt my cock when I went into her – or some other asshole – in dry state, and for some days thereafter my prick has ached.

She wriggled her full buttocks in impatience, her voice coarse with lust. Your prick, first, m'lord – deep in my asshole, please. And then your thumb between my legs, with my neck crooked so my tongue...

She gasped in savage pleasure, for I'd suddenly without warning removed my thumb. I saw it brown and rather sloppy as it went between her legs. Immediately, her fair back bunched, the spinal column standing out, as she contorted to get my thumb within range of her wide damp tongue.

I felt her tongue lave my thumb. I felt her excrement leave my thumb. I heard her swallow happily, her larynx working. She actually purred, but not smoothly like a mother cat; her purr was broken, jagged and contained much bliss.

With my free hand, I obtained the open jar of lamb's grease in the drawer. First, I laved her asshole with it, smoothing the white cream over the brown ring, then, with my forefinger, I introduced the liquid into her asshole, spreading it around inside her anal ring.

She gasped around my thumb, now being sucked by her fair lips. I then greased my prod thoroughly, putting an especially heavy coat over my knob, and she moaned around my thumb, begging me to begin our foul proceedings.

Stick me deep, m'lord. Give me all your cock, m'sweet. Drive your prick deep into my asshole, m'love!

I caught myself, suddenly remembering the two coaches, four horses plunging through last night's fog, and the horse pistol – for had not Lady Haversock, supposedly cultured, supposed civilized, uttered the same banal entreaties, only begging me to put my dong deeper into her cunt, not her asshole?

Thoroughly greased, I placed my knob directly over her anus, covering it completely. My blood sang. Her asshole was very, very tight. Even after an all-night session with some bitch when she crawled into my bed the next morning her tight asshole always drew me to quick and complete ejaculation.

Now let us pause for a moment, gentle reader. Let me attempt to paint a verbal picture of this scene.

Outside the fair sun of England shines after a night of dense fog, stifling and cold. It streams through the high windows of my bedroom. In its bright light I look at the ass below me, my prick lying in its wide crack directly over the anus laced with long hair.

There are some even in these enlightened times who claim that anal intercourse is obscene and contrary to God's will. These idiots, fanatic with false religion, contend that each intercourse should be with one intent, and one only: to bring a child into his stupid world.

And they point out in fanatic wrath that asshole intercourse could not produce a child under any circumstances. And they further add that only those legally wedded in the church should be allowed, in God's eyes, to have intercourse, one with the other.

Were this latter true, there'd be little sexual intercourse in the world – at least in Fair England. I dare say that for each time the average man has sex with his wife he has ten times that much sex with strange women or concubines or mistresses.

Thus I stood on my knees, poised, cock ramrod stiff, ready to lance these fair buttocks. Soon my prick, sliding in this pleading anus, would spread those buttocks even wider, my testicles settling hard against her hairy cunt, directly below her asshole, of course.

But was I not forgetting some essential? Oh, yes, I was – and her choking voice reminded me, coming dim and hollow from under and beneath her spread thighs.

"Your finger, m'lord. Deep in my cunt, m'lord, playing with my clitoris – Oh, I have an orgasm, darling. Please, drive it into my ass, for your cock running along the bottom of my rectum also teases my vagina and womb.

Oh, again I flow to your finger, m'love!

I fear I rush my reader, therefore I shall for a moment digress on the finer points of anal injection – called by the uncouth Americans, god damn their bones, as cornholing – and how the word cornholing was derived I don't know, nor do I care to know from the ignorant Americans.

But there I was, poised behind these lovely wide buttocks, one finger in a flowing bowl of womanhood, the other hand around my penis, holding it stiffer yet to drive it deep in her opening and closing asshole that even now brushed and loved my knob, begging me to push my shaft to my rocks in her, deep and comforting.

Yes, dear reader, let us digress for a moment?

Episode Number Three

Let us for a moment, dear reader, discuss what the rude Americans call cornholing, for although I hate to admit anything the Americans do is correct nevertheless the word cornholing somehow adequately describes the procedure we English cocks-men call 'anal injection.'

First, let me analyze the thought of this day, here in this year of 1642 in England. Sir Frances Drake – God bless him – broke the back of Spain on the sea in 1588, thus throwing open the liberation of the West Indies to Her Majesty's fleet and British colonization.

Then the Good Queen Bess, God bless her virgin soul, led us to higher heights, and now we face the bastard king, Charles First, son of a dog that he is.

During Bess, we lived strictly... on the surface, but underneath was much of what the church-goers such as Charles First call 'evilness,' for anything a churchman cannot understand he labels 'evil.'

Many good Englishmen – such as my ailing uncle – are leaving the Homeland, seeking the colonies – mostly going to what is known as the West Indies, for these islands are, in the main, ours now that we have routed the idol-worshiping, murdering, robbing Spaniards.

Our religious fanatics are going to what is called North America. That is good. England is then shut of them, as the peasants say. They can there make life miserable for the redskins, and God bless the latter.

For the fanatics are against anything that is enjoyable, and frown the most, of course, on illegal intercourse, which to me – and my sick uncle – seems utterly without rhyme or reason, for what indoor sport is more enjoyable than the act of sexual intercourse?

This bastardly Charles First is rotten to the core. (Were he to read these words to the Tower I would go, so I must keep this diary – if such it can be called! – secret until after my passing, at least.)

This evil man – Christian, he calls himself! – pirated my uncle's estate, one member in the king-bought and king-controlled government merely pointing a finger at my uncle and accusing him of heresy and out-of-wedlock sexual experiences, and thus my uncle's estate passed to the Crown... and his accuser who spoke falsely, knowing that his fabrication would bring to him my uncle's wealth.

All a friend of this low King need to do is whisper in the King's ear that so-and-so is immoral and so-and-so has lost his holdings without access to court or a jury of his peers, as we were guaranteed centuries ago by the Magna Carta.

Indeed, my kind cocksman uncle was left with merely enough to get to the West Indies and there support himself for a year and no more. Thus he left the book of confessions behind him – which I today sold for a nice sum – and this I shall soon dispatch by special packet to my beloved uncle.

But I have drifted afar from where I stood on my knees, my cock lying hard against the first maid's fair asshole. I shall take my reader back to the present. Were this maid to have access to somebody who had access to the bastardly Charles First, and were she to tell His Majesty of our fucking-claiming, of course, that I raped her! – my estate, such as it is, would be confiscated by the Crown, and I'd be lucky to escape the Tower, where are a few of my good young friends today, sentenced for life in solitary confinement for a crime that, under Queen Bess, would have been of no consequence, at all!

And this maid begged me to put my organ in her anus, to prod and push and lance it forward until it rode high and pushing in her colon, my rocks bouncing as I fucked against her cunt, wherein was already the index finger of my right hand, stroking and loving her Little Man.

Now she had another orgasm, her full buttocks shivering with sexual delight. I heard a low, happy moaning break her lips. At that moment, too, her asshole opened due to her passion – and into it my cock moved, sliding in its greasy bed, with her anus, trained and willing, opening and closing, trying to pull my prick in her to my very bag!

I felt warmth surround my penis. A great happiness speared me. My left hand gripped her hip, rounded and smooth, and my strong body went back and forth, a crink in my back as I bent over her back, my penis going in and out of her grasping and releasing anus.

I looked down. I felt pride. A lovely ass lay even with my cock. My organ rocked in, out; now brown streaked it, for she evidently was filled with excrement, having not yet done her daily chore.

I felt my bulb push through a heaviness. That would be the main body of her excrement, snug in her colon. I watched my penis come out, out, out – and still out... it seemed to come out for some minutes. Finally, only my knob hung to her anus, and the strong cheek muscles there twisted my bulb, massaging it and loving it before, once again, my penis moved in, in, in, and still in, and again my hand, anchored in her cunt, felt the roughness of my sac, covered with hair and small in this, my great hour of human achievement!

Oh, how we fucked! She gasped and I felt wind break around my prick; her sweet fart wafted upward, perfume in my straining nostrils My organ pushed down hard on the base of her colon. Thus I massaged her vulva and womb, for the womb and vulva lies close to the colon, as anybody who knows the least bit about a woman's anatomy knows.

How her asshole's strong lips pulled my penis, and how her ovaries discharged again and again! Whiteness ran down the insides of her full thighs, and my hand was completely white and sticky.

I felt passion rise in me, my testicles growing ready to launch my semen into her colon, and then she cried, M'lord, m'lord! Your cock, sir, in my cunt – and hurry, for I feel another coming!

Frankly, I was tired of her anus, for I am the type who tires soon of one sexual position, for I find in variety a spicy diet. Therefore I quickly withdrew from her top orifice and as hurriedly transfer to her lower opening, noticing in the removal and entrance that delicious brown markings, watery and perfume-filled, streaked my manly lance.

Then, my sword was in her to its hilt, my testicles dancing now on thin air. But she, as usual, reached back and, with fond fingers, began gently massaging my stone, as was her delightful habit.

Some women – even experienced whores – cannot massage a man's boulders correctly; they are too rough, even though they try to be gentle. A man's testicles are very, very touchy. This maid, though, knew how to love them, her fingers fairy whisps against my sac.

Women were made to please men, she murmured, delirious with happiness.

I thought, I wish more women realized that fact. What a more happy world we would have.

No woman can be in a happier position than the one I am in, she then whispered, talking to herself in her sexual delirium.

I thought of Lady Haversock, usually reserved, very cold and aloof, in a similar position last night, my penis – . Then I remembered the stages lurching through the fog, the one behind catching the one in front, and I had been in the one in front, and behind me –

I deliberately shoved such thoughts from my brain, concentrating on the ample buttocks pitching and falling, my penis buried to the sac in the mass of long, smooth hair.

Needless to say, this maid was a good whore. Why shouldn't she be? She'd been a mere sixteen when she'd come to serve my uncle, who had initiated her into the simple joys of sex the first day she entered his gracious employment.

The second day after her coming I, a mere youth, stabbed her four times in one hour, for sex had lanced and darted through both our young bodies.

Whenever she failed to flow, our family doctor eased her in abortion, but one time – when I was a mere twenty-four – my uncle