by AnonYMous
Do not think that I complain, dearest cousin. To walk behind Julie forever was a torment of exquisite delight. Slim and lithe, for all her lack of height, she moves with long and easy strides, the sweep of her golden blond hair rising and falling a little upon her shoulders with the motion of her steps. To see her tightly clad thighs, so slim and agile, moving in this youthful manner makes one long for her. Her buttocks are high and pert, lasciviously displayed under the pale blue of the denim seat. I may tell you from mere observation that Julie's panties are scandalously brief and tight.
Indeed, all those who have watched her at work in the bookshop while she wears the tight jeans-denim can vouch for this. The tight seat shows the outline of Julie's knickers, which are nothing more than a twist of thin cotton between her legs and a narrow rear triangle, which does little more than cover the cleavage of her hind cheeks.
So I followed the object of my desire, up the long slope of the streets and across the Queen's own square, along the upper toad, past the park and towards the new bridge. Once or twice I thought she seemed to glance round slightly, as if suspecting that she had an admirer in tow. Yet for the life of me, my dear, I could not think how to approach her. There is, you understand, a considerable gulf between our social ranks. How hard it is for one of my rank to be accepted by a girl in her situation. She had crossed by the park lane and was walking along by the shops, when inspiration came to me. I felt in my pocket and found a gold sovereign. Holding this firmly in my hand, I strode forward, determined to overtake her. Almost gasping with apprehension, I drew level and flourished the coin. “I beg your pardon,” I said, hearing the tremor in my own voice, “I believe you have dropped this!” Was I not cunning, dear cousin? Had I not found the ideal pretext? It might cost me a pound and yet I had purchased a rare opportunity. Julie stopped and turned to me. Yes there is sulkiness in that mouth and chin, a certain hardness in the hazel eyes and the wide cheekbones. The young face may be a little pale and wan, the nose somewhat crude. But she is adorable. “Oh, yes,” she said, taking the coin and allowing me to feel her warm hand, “I think I must have done.” Her voice! Dearest Maude, I have heard her voice for the first time. To be sure it is a little flat and common. Its tone suggests that Julie may whine with displeasure when the mood takes her. Yet I love her for what she is, Maudie, and not for what a pattern-maker would require. She slipped the coin into her pocket and turned to flounce on her way. “I hope,” said I, “that we may be better acquainted in a while. You were at the recital the other evening, I believe, and I should value your opinion as to the performance.” “As to that,” she said, “I have no opinion. I went only as a companion.” “In that case,” I murmured, “it would give me the greatest pleasure to escort you there on some other occasion.”
She did not, I confess, seize upon the invitation at once.
“We'll see,” said Julie with an impatient toss of her fine blond mane, “Perhaps you may escort me. For the moment, though, you'd best leave off following me as you have been doing the past half-hour. Even if I shouldn't mind it and shouldn't call a policeman, my friend-my boyfriend that is-won't stand for it. A hefty fellow, he is.”
With that, the little minx went on her way. Discouraged? You think me discouraged, Maude? Never, I promise you! I have spoken to my idol, the object of my adoration. I will not be denied. I cannot be denied, having come so far. I know who she is and where she may be found. I have touched her hand and heard her voice. I have seen the shape of her pretty bottom-cheeks and the line of the scandalous little panties which she wears. I shall triumph, Maude. Believe me, I shall triumph. If I should be denied now-if I do not triumph-I have no idea how I can endure it. To tell you the truth, my thoughts about Julie since seeing her close and hearing her voice have become a little unworthy of the great Petrarchian love to which I aspired a few nights ago. I think more and more of Julie with her knickers down.
Julie with her slim and childishly fragile thighs spread wide. Julie with her mouth rounded upon my stiffness. Julie arse-upwards, cheekily inviting my attentions over the sofa cushions. Julie shuddering and whimpering as the pulse of passion is released deep in her belly.
I daresay all those men who view her behind the counter or at her chores have similar thoughts to mine. Yet none feels the effect of them as deeply as I. Oh yes, I am in love, dear Maude. My case is worse than it was to begin with. Quite incurable. Your own devoted Augustus Anonymous Augustus and Lady Maude V. Lady Maude to Augustus Lago di Garda, 11 June Augustus, dear!
How could you? How can you be so lacking in self-respect, in prudence, in loyalty to your family and your class? Do you forget who you are that you demean yourself before such a base creature as this Julie? Once and for all, my cousin, she is a tart, a common shopgirl, almost a whore I suspect. If not for your own sake, then for ours, think of what you are doing! She is not worth a single outpouring of seed from such a man as yourself. And I must say, Gussie, that were I more closely your kin than I am, my concern would be to bring proceedings before the Commissioners in Lunacy to have you protected from your own follies. Next you will be telling us that you wish to marry the little slut! A fine thing indeed to find such a face at the far end of-the dining-table or upon the pillow beside you in your own bedroom. I really think, my love, that Dr. Raspail has proved a disaster in the matter of your neurasthenia. Will you not reconsider, Augustus my dear? Will you not, after all, leave England and come to us here in Italy for the season? The light and air would do you good.
The Italian way of dealing with such problems of the heart as yours would at once put many matters into perspective for you. If you will not consent to that, then, I beg you, let my own friends make arrangements for your entertainment at home. I do not expect you to live like an anchorite. Of course you must have young women to occupy your attention. Indeed, your present malaise gives you an appetite for the strong meat of shopgirls and trollops. So be it. They shall be provided until you have had your fill of them and are prepared to return to the rarer and finer delicacies offered by young girls of our own class. You are at present in a dangerous state, mon ami, where you really may ask the whining and sullen Julie to be your wife. And if you do not attempt that, I fear you may be guilty of some act which may cause her to scream for a policeman. Oh, have no fear. There will be no legal action. The police do not come quite as cheap as they once did. On the other hand, there are few of them who would not be content to ignore Julie's protests and walk away with your sovereigns chinking in their pockets. Yet the scandal may spread just the same.
What is it you want, Gussie? Only ask and it shall be provided.
Do you yearn for a coltish young blonde with the features of her pale oval face as hard and crude as Julie's? Must she have sturdy hips, shortish thighs, and full bottom-cheeks? Why, you shall have that creature in your bed this very week! Do you prefer a strapping young wench with lank dark hair and fringe, firm pale features, straight back, trim thighs, bottom cheeks sturdy and broadened? Only say what you would have! Would you like a pair of sisters on the threshold of their teens-daughters of good middle-class family? Then you may have brown-eyed and brown-haired Joanne of the rather weighty hips and seat, partnered by her cadette, Claire, of the trim little figure, cropped hair, and gymnastic ability. If it is none of these, only whisper your secret longings and they shall be provided for. Do you secretly long to see Joanne and Claire head-to-tail on your bed in their passion? Would you embed your manly stiffness deep between the puppy-fat cheeks of Joanne's bottom? You have only to ask, dear Gus, and you shall enjoy thrills enough to make you forget the very existence of the wretched little tart, Julie.
Best of all, you should come to us in Italy. I promise you there is entertainment enough! Since I last wrote, matters have developed most amusingly here. Not only do we have Carissima Jones at our disposal but the nymph Marit, a Scandinavian student of fifteen who has been put under Mr. Bowler's tutelage for a month or two while she learns the language and customs of Italy. I assure you, de
ar cousin, that Marit will offer you all the charms of Julie with the added thrill of a young girl whose body and mind have not yet reached the full growth of womanhood, so that you may train her in the way you would have her develop. You do not believe me? Very well. Imagine yourself in this resort, somewhere near the pink paving of the promenade and the palm trees stirring in the breeze. The youth of the town and the young students gather there in noisy groups. Among them you would find Marit and some other girl who takes language lessons at the summer academy. One sight of Marit would make you forget the little tart by whom you have been ensnared! To be sure you shall have her dressed in the same blouse and tight denim of your idol. What would you see? A pretty little creature, charmingly indifferent to the authority of her elders and betters, Marit has those firm and pert little features which match the lightly sun-browned silkiness of her fair skin. The tilt of her nose and the tight little chin are as charming as her blue eyes and the light brown waves of lustrous hair which are worn loose and trimmed just where they lie upon her shoulders. You might see her in some cheeky little summer cap, sitting at a cafe table with the others, smoking a forbidden cigarette, and you would long only for her. Mark's figure is just of the sort you prefer. Indeed she likes to show it in the tightest jeans-denim of beachwear. Her legs and thighs are still narrow and straight, quite as slender as those which you admire through the bookshop window! Her hips are lean as those of any fourth-form schoolgirl and Marit's bottom-cheeks are still slim and tightly rounded. You have only to join us here, dear Gussie, and this nymph of Norway shall be yours with all her adolescent promise. You hesitate! Perhaps Marit at fifteen is not ready for such things as you envisage? You would be quite wrong in that, my dear, and I will prove you so with the evidence of my own eyes. Marit has the certain knowing hardness about her which betrays her knowledge of men, though I do not think she has experienced much even with boys of her own age. You would alter that for her, would you not? How do I know all this? Last night there occurred the most amusing incident of all. The Signore with his bold eyes and waxed moustache paid us a call after dinner to share coffee and liqueurs and to inquire most charmingly after our well-being during Mr. Bowler's short absence in Venice. At a late hour, he took his leave and was shown from the room by Miss Jones. Mark had long since been despatched to her room so that we might talk of things freely in her absence. The Signore is most intrigued by the Scandinavian surname Aas, which he feels sure must be derived from a vulgarity of some sort! Ten minutes after he had left my company, I went upstairs to my own room and was soon aware of a murmuring which came from beyond the wall. Our randy young Miss Jones was not alone in her bedroom! You may be sure that I lost no time in drawing up a chair and applying my eye to the spy-hole in the wall. One does not hear very much, for the walls are conveniently thick and I do not suppose that Miss Jones or the Signore who was with her now thought that anything of their activities could be overheard. To my astonishment, Miss Jones was dressed as if for her work the other afternoon, in tight pants and blouse. Indeed she was now performing the very chores which had attracted the attention of several gentlemen to the shop window. The Signore sat in a chair behind her, one hand playing with his waxed moustache while he watched her. He was for all the world like the young man whose trouser front had bulged with such a load while he watched Miss Jones at work on all fours!
With the small round brush she was now stirring up the pile of the bedroom carpet, the crop of her brushed curls lowered and her almond eyes flashing their occasional challenge at the man who sat behind her. As she worked her way back towards him, Miss Jones's slim and upward branching thighs offered a lewd and enticing prospect to her master. Her rear cheeks so round and trim, so suggestively separated, swelled and writhed. The route between the rear of her legs lay tantalisingly open. By hollowing her waist downwards, the randy little piece was trying to offer herself still more brazenly for his attention. As soon as she was close to his chair, the Signore put his hand down and began to fondle the cheeks of Miss Jones's backside in the tight denim. She stopped at once, waiting on hands and knees with her head still bowed a little, as if to discover what his pleasure might be. It will not surprise you to learn that the Signore began to undo her at the waist and to work the denim, with Miss Jones's panties inside, well down over her taut young hips and trim thighs. A moment more and her pants were round her knees as she knelt at his disposal. The great man slipped his fingers between her warm gold thighs from the rear. With gentle stroking and squeezing he roused her, for all the world as if he were milking some compliant female creature in his stable! If Miss Jones felt the indignity of such a situation, she showed no sign of this. She braced herself on hands and knees, her head lowered as if she were trying to look back between her legs at what he was doing to her. Her slim Levantine thighs writhed together in the most exquisite of Cupid's torments and the cheeks of her backside seemed to tense and relax in a furtive tell-tale rhythm. From time to time the Signore drew his hand away, causing her a gasp of deprivation, and administered a ringing smack on the coppery smoothness of Miss Jones's bottom, that forced a squeal of alarm from her. Then she moaned and quivered gratefully as the hand resumed its former labours between her thighs. You may be sure that he was not going to bring her to a conclusion so easily, Augustus. Any man who had possession of this lascivious little piece would want to make it a long session with her. He was merely working her up to a point at which she would never regain her equanimity without first having a climax. He told her to remain on all fours and I guessed at once that there was to be some kind of bedroom sport.
Getting up from his chair, the Signore went over to the table and took a fine mauve candle from its silver-gilt holder. In a moment more, he stooped over the girl as she knelt on hands and knees. To be sure, she was more than ready for something of the kind. With a little careful insertion of the candle-base between the rear of her legs, he found a most convenient holder for it-a holder which received the round mauve wax with grateful tremors and sudden gasps of pent-up excitement! The ornamental wick protruded back between the rear of the slim gold thighs in a most provoking manner. Somewhat to my alarm, the Signore struck a match and applied it to the wick. It burnt with a small and perfect flame. I hoped he did not intend it to burn down until it scorched randy young Miss Jones ou vous savez, as the saying is! You may be sure, though, he is too much of a gentleman for that.
The proletarian zeal whose torches found their way between the thighs of certain aristocratic beauties in '92 is foreign to him. Who can tell what preliminaries a pair of lovers may adopt to excite them to greater prodigies in their coupling? Miss Jones waited on all fours while the Signore with his moustache finely waxed and his eyes staring, went down on all fours behind her. A spot of hot wax fell on her bare thigh and she gave a sudden start, for which he chided her.
The rules of the game must be observed. Presently he clapped his hands sharply to make the sound of a starting-pistol. In his own bedroom, this cavaliere would have fired off a pistol in earnest but he was more prudent as a guest at the Villa Lola. When the signal was given, Miss Jones scampered forward on hands and knees, the little flame of the candle fluttering like a flag. Grinning madly, the Signore set off in pursuit. He did not, it is true, use his utmost energy for he wished to prolong the fun a little. The object of the sport was to blow out, snuff out, or snap out the life of the little flame whose candle was sunk so firmly in the girl's love-nest. At first he tried to blow in sharp gusts of breath but the randy young minx merely twisted her arse this way and that to frustrate him.
Foiled in this, the Signore took from his pocket a pair of snuffers and tried to smother the flame by pinching it out. He was not successful, though he once pinched the flesh high up on the rear of the girl's thigh, which caused an amazing shriek. The Signore told her, somewhat ungratefully, to shut her noise. As the sublime artist scampered after his beauty, lured on by squirming thighs and writhing hips, there was nearly a catastrophe to put paid to the Villa Lola an
d all its occupants. Our randy young odalisque was greatly excited by the sport and by the promise of what was going to be done to her at its conclusion. This, combined with the agreeable presence of the candle base in her pussy had made her lubricate copiously. Her energetic movements made her feel the candle more exquisitely than ever and her natural feminine slipperiness had spread even down the inner surfaces of her trim thighs. I swear it was this state of her excitement which now caused the candle to shoot backwards from between young Miss Jones's legs as she scampered forwards. Like a splendid jeu d'artifice it sped out from beneath her thighs and described a surprising arc across the bedroom, the Same still fluttering at the wick. It fell quite six feet away and was at once in danger of setting on fire the silk cover of the bed. The Signore, galantuomo that he is, ignored this mere threat to life when there were more important matters to be decided. It was Miss Jones with a charming little scream who sprang across to the bed and began to beat out the infant flames with the back of a hairbrush. At no point had it been agreed that the rules of the game were suspended. The Signore snatched a silk cord from the curtain and, as the object of his lust knelt over the scene of the little conflagration, he ran the cord round her wrists and tied her by it to the bedpost. There she knelt, or rather knelt over, the edge of the bed, her hands tied and able only to look round at him with a sudden fright in the slant of her enigmatic almond eyes. How busy he was with her now! He knelt down behind the lewd young shopgirl, just like a dog who sniffs a bitch. He kissed the coppery smoothness of her bottom-cheeks, her trim young thighs, and even between her legs, much to the cost of his immaculately waxed whiskers. He gave her a hearty smack on the bottom and then another. This excited him so much that he continued until Miss Jones wailed plaintively to know if she was to be spanked or ravished. “A little spanking, Car',” he murmured, “A smack or two to make you lively! Do you want to go home, Car? Have you had enough, Carissima Jones?” With that he unbuttoned and mounted her. I do not suppose such lust can ever be a matter for true elegance, nor was it in this present case. He rode her in and out for several minutes, then withdrew, smacked her bottom a little, and rode her again.
