We were only waited on by two young girls, extremely pretty, and who were doubtless initiated in the sweet pleasures of their mistress, for their presence did not prevent her lavishing on me the most tender caresses. The diversity of wines and liqueurs which I had been forced to drink, that delicious harmony whose varied modulations alternately inspired the most lively transports and the most voluptuous languor, the advances of Caroline, her free discourse, all, in short, contributed to make me share her delirium, so that when she passed from the table to the boudoir, not only her sex was no longer an obstacle to my impetuous desires, but the novelty of that piquante and singular scene seemed to add to their intensity.
The most exquisite perfumes were burning at the feet of the principal statue.
"Do you see," said Caroline, regarding it, her cheeks on fire, "do you see with what greedy curiosity Venus examines the charms of Algae, the most beautiful of the graces? The marble seems to become animated at the sight of such attractions. Ah, my Julia, let me imitate it; let my hands, my eyes, do so also. But let us divest ourselves of these inconvenient robes, let there be no obstacles to our burning transports, every veil which covers you robs me of a pleasure!"
In a moment Caroline reduced me to a state of pure nature; far from resisting, I imitated her eagerness; the new beauties which discovered themselves to our view extorted a cry of admiration, and suspended our burning caresses.
Our hands, which for an instant seemed to have respected so many charms, wander with fresh delirium. Caroline takes me in her arms, drags me on to the ottoman, and obliges me to assume the attitude of Algae! I recline with my head resting on one of my arms, the right foot on the ottoman, the knee raised, whilst the left leg, unsupported, gently balances itself.
My chere amie, not less curious than Venus, takes the same posture, and places herself exactly in front of the throne of felicity, one of the beautiful knees rests on a cushion, the other serves for a footstool. Caroline, at her ease, contemplates the object of her dearest desires. Her delicate hand opens the rose, and the new Sappho exclaims with transports of joy, impossible to describe, "She is still a virgin! Good God, what a source of pleasure!"
I confess I could never have imagined this discovery of such great value to her; virgin or not, what need she care? But we cannot account for the eccentricity of the passions, and doubtless the most singular of all is to find one female amorous of another.
Love! thou who inflamed Caroline with the most ardent fires for one of her own sex, lend me thy burning pencil that I may worthily describe this voluptuous scene, as even in forcing us to give way to thy caprices, thy only object is to render us happy!
Caroline rises transported, presses me in her arms, giving a thousand kisses, then resuming her first attitude, contemplates anew the prettiest of bijous. "Yes," she exclaims, "that flower is untouched. What colour! What freshness! Similar to the bee, I will extract the ambrosia! I will intoxicate myself with its delicious juice. I will drain it with pleasure!"
Then by a thousand means, which I dare not describe, but which occasioned me the most delicious sensations, Caroline made me attain the last period of delight. Her design was not merely to procure me delight; the skilful bee, wanting in the natural engine necessary to extract the honey from the rose, made use of her lascivious tongue to draw down my ambrosial tribute to love, titillating and sucking in such a rapturous manner that her face was almost drowned by my impetuous emission, as I went off into a most delicious state of almost unconscious lethargy.
Expressions would vainly endeavour to give an idea of Caroline's excitement; she seemed to have lost her reason as the source of life, her words were as incoherent as her conduct was extravagant. But what do I say? Was she not more sensible than ever, since all she said, everything she did, only tended to increase our intoxication, and add to its fury. Caroline, whose desires no longer knew any restraints, in order to satisfy them, made me pass through all the gradations of pleasure. I tasted in the same evening all those indescribable enjoyments which I should not have been acquainted with until after a long novitiate, had not the extraordinary passion
I inspired her with induced her to initiate me at once in the most secret mysteries.
What charming pictures could I describe were I permitted to give the reins to my pen.
My imagination, exalted by these enchanting souvenirs, longs to retrace the image! But, alas! I must confine in my bosom the secret ready to escape, and deprive the most beautiful half of the human race of a fruitful source of pleasures and voluptuousness, of which the experience alone can conceive the extent!
TEN LITTLE NIGGERS.
Ten little niggers did a farting match design,
One got excited and died, so there were nine;
Nine little niggers laid his body straight,
One chanced to touch his prick, then there were eight;
Eight little nigger boys took a trip to Devon,
One fucked a peasant girl, and soon they were seven;
Seven little niggers got fooling with their pricks,
One got his foreskin back, and then they were six;
Six little niggers a frig loop did contrive,
One overspent himself, then they were five;
Five little nigger boys each picked a whore,
One had his in the arse, then there were four;
Four little nigger boys for a prize did pee,
One pissed himself away, then there were three;
Three little niggers had connection with a Jew,
The Chief Rabbi caught one, and then there were two;
Two little niggers were gamahuched for fun,
One got his prick bit off, then there was one;
The last little nigger met a Countess at a ball,
Married her, got the pox and died, and now that is all.
MISS COOTE'S CONFESSION,
or the voluptuous experiences of an old maid;
In a series of Letters to a Lady Friend.
letter IX
My dear Nellie,—
I have been looking over some of my grandfather's papers, and found the following curious little bit written by his brother Dean Coote, "Remarks on the influence of Female Beauty":—
I shall reverse the general practice, and instead of beginning with the head, commence with the leg, and hope to get credit for so doing. A pretty face, sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, delicate complexion, smiles, dimples, hair dark, auburn or blonde, have all, it is acknowledged, great weight in the business of love; but still let me appeal to every impartial and unprejudiced observer, which he is most curious to behold, the legs or the face of his favourite lady.
Whether does the face or the legs of a pretty girl that is clambering over a style, or mounting a ladder, most attract our notice and regard?
What is it that causes my lord to smack his chops in that wanton lecherous manner, as he is sauntering up and down the lounge in Bond Street, with his glass in hand, to watch the ladies getting in and out of their carriages? And what is it that draws together such vast crowds of the holiday gentry at Easter and Whitsuntide, to see the merry rose-faced lasses running down the hill in Greenwich Park?
What is it causes such a roar of laughter and applause when a merry girl happens to overset in her career, and kick her heels in the air?
Lastly, as the parsons all say, what is it that makes the theatrical ballets so popular?
It has frequently been remarked by travellers that in no nation of the world are the ladies more nice and curious about their legs than in England; and to do them justice there is perhaps no nation in the world where the ladies have greater reason to show them like pretty girls in dirty weather, when the fear of passing for dragtails causes the pretty creatures to hold their petticoats up behind, and display their lovely calves and ankles above par. But I am infinitely more delighted with my muddy walk than were I making an excursion in the finest sunshiny day imaginable. There is a kind of magic in the sight of a handsome female leg, which is not in the power of language to describe, to be conceived it must be felt.
We read in the memoirs of Brantфme of a certain illustrious lady, who was so fully sensible of the vast importance of a handsome leg that once having the misfortune to break one of hers by a fall from a horse, and the surgeon by some inadvertency or other, failing to set the bone straight, she was so grieved at this accident that she actually had the fortitude to snap it across a second time on purpose and with design, then sending for a more skilful doctor, took care to have her leg carefully reset, by which means it was restored to its former grace and loveliness.
Some of my readers may, perhaps, condemn this conduct in the lady; for my part, I cannot but greatly admire both the soundness of her judgment and the amazing strength of her mind. But too well am I acquainted, from experience, with the magic which centres in a pretty leg, a delicate ankle, and well-proportioned calf.
The first time that I was in love (I perfectly well remember the circumstances as if it occurred but yesterday), the first time I could ever be said to feel what love is, I had to thank a pretty leg for it. I was then in my teens, as harmless and innocent a young fellow as needs be. My friends were of the strictest sect of religion. I was nolens volens brought up in their principles. Plays, novels, and all kinds of books which treat upon the subject of love were denied me; my parents were ambitious that I should be a second Joseph, and had partly succeeded in this pious design, when, lo! one single unlucky circumstance completely baffled all their endeavours.