The Romance of Violette

CHAPTER IX

At first they were attentive to one another as lovers would be together, helping one another to small dainties and tidbits, intermixed with burning kisses on the arms, shoulders and lips. Then, after supper, they rose, letting their haicks fall to the floor, the Countess like the goddess Pomona, bearing away some fruit in a basket of golden filigree, and Florence holding in her hand a cup brimming over with sparkling champagne.

They approached the bed with arms encircling each other's waists. Then they looked at one another, as if to say: “Who is going to begin?”

“Ah!” said the Countess, “I think I must begin.”

No doubt Florence was satisfied with the reply, for she pressed her lips to those of the Countess, imprinting a burning kiss on her mouth, and she lay on the bed in a posture full of abandon.

The Countess gazed for a moment on the strange form, in which were combined the virility of the man and the gracefulness of woman. She took from her hair the golden comb studded with diamonds, and laid it as a crown on the charming representative of the mysterious Isis, who, foremost of all goddesses, was worshipped under the name of Saunia.

The gold and diamonds sparkled in the black fur, and the comb almost disappeared in it, without reaching however to the aperture which the jealous Countess would have wished to encompass.

Then she went on her knees, and as the magnificent ornament which she had just added to the shrine did not hinder her from paying her respects to it, she gently laid Florence's thighs on her two shoulders, and drew aside the thick fur which closed the entrance to the grotto disclosed to her view, like a casket of black velvet lined with rose-coloured satin.

At this unexpected sight the Countess gave an exclamation of pleasure, and at once began to apply her tongue to the pretty sanctuary; but, to her great astonishment, she preceived that the passage, which she thought free, was closed up. She rose quickly and looking eagerly at Florence, said:

“What does that mean?”

“Why, dear Odette,” said Florence laughing, “it means that I am a virgin, or if you prefer it, that I still have my maidenhead.”

“Is there any difference?”

“Certainly, my dear. The virgin is a girl that never was touched by anybody; the innocent one who knows nothing of love's pleasures. But she of the maidenhead is the one who in spite of her own private practices, or her intercourse with others, has been able to keep whole the membrane of the Hymen.”

“Ah! then I have found a girl whom man never sullied! Oh! my beautiful Florence, I can hardly believe it.”

“You can ascertain for yourself,” said Florence; “the more so as I have to reproach you with stopping short when I was just about to feel the approach of pleasure. Begin again, my beloved Odette, and should there be any further occasion for astonishment, wait till you have done before you express it.”

“One word more?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you have still your maidenhead, but you are no longer a virgin?”

“No, indeed I am not.”

“Are men responsible for your being no longer a virgin?”

“Not for the world. The gaze of man never rested on my form; never did man touch me.”

“Ah!” cried Odette, “that is all I wished to know,” and she threw herself on Florence, and applied her lips to the sanctuary.

Florence gave a little shriek. She felt, perhaps too acutely the impression of the teeth which caressed her, but almost at the same time, Odette's tongue replaced the teeth and that clever tongue at once ascertained the accuracy of Florence's statement, and that if she was no longer a virgin, her maidenhead was still intact.

As for Florence she experienced all the pleasure which can be given by a skilful tongue, and it was so intense that she could hardly help uttering little shrieks as if in pain. She was almost in a swoon when the Countess began giving her on the mouth kisses which had been so profusely distributed elsewhere.

“Ah! it is my turn!” she said in a state of great excitement.

And she let herself glide from the bed in the posture of the wounded gladiator. The Countess took her place on the bed and drew her body close to Florence's inclined head.

“Ah!” she murmured: “If a man had seen and heard what you just heard and saw, I should never dare to lift up my head again.”

At that very moment the Countess was so close to her that her hair brushed Florence's head.

The beautiful actress gave a start, her nostrils quivered; she raised her head, opened her eyes, and perceived that her mouth was close to that fiery bouquet which at first sight had so excited her.

But the ardour of her desires had abated, and Florence, slightly tired, but not satiated, had now more leisure to devote to pleasure. She fondly kissed the perfumed hair and began returning the caresses which the Countess had lavished upon her; but suddenly she seemed struck with a novel idea, and, laying the Countess at full length on the bed, she applied her mouth to the latter's parted thighs, whilst she placed herself in a similar but reversed position.

Then the two bodies became one-the breasts were pressed on the respective bellies. During some moments all conversation ceased, for the two eager mouths were at work; nothing could be heard but the panting respiration of the women and sighs of pleasure, and suddenly both became motionless, quite exhausted.

This time there was a protracted pause. Both seemed as if sleeping. At last both appeared to revive, and simultaneously exclaimed:

“Oh, what bliss!” then, quite panting, dishevelled, with languid eyes, weakened by their exertions, they slipped from the bed and lay down on a long and spacious couch.

“Ah! beautiful Florence! What pleasure you gave me!” said Odette.

“Well, I am so glad I found something new.”

“Oh, darling! I thought I should die!”

“Then you had much pleasure?”

“Oh, yes; but I fancy that it cannot equal that which a man can give.”

“Do you think, then that a man in that respect is our superior?”

“Indeed I do. We but light the fire. We do not put it out.”

“Whereas man…”

“Ah! Man thoroughly stamps it out Luckily we have some inventions which supply the place of what nature refused us.

“Have you not heard of dildoes?”

“Is it a fact that such things really exist?”

“No doubt, have you never seen any?”

“Never!”

“Would you like to see one?”

“Indeed I should very much like to.”

“Do you know the shape of a man's attributes?”

“As much as I could judge from statues.”

“Not otherwise?”

“No.”

“You have never seen a man?”

“Never!”

“Oh, then I shall be able in my turn to show you something new.”

“Have you any?”

“Yes, of every description.”

“Oh, let me see them.”

“Wait a little then,” said Odette, “I will fetch all my treasures.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Come.”

Odette took Florence to her dressing room and then, opening a secret drawer in her necessaire, she drew forth a casket and two cases like those used for pistols.

She brought forth the whole collection and laid it on the couch for inspection.

“First of all,” said Odette, “I must show you the contents of the casket. The jewel which it encloses is not only a historical jewel, but also a work of art. It is said to be the production of the great Benvenuto Cellini.”

Odette opened the casket of red velvet, and exhibited a true masterpiece of carved ivory.

This was an exact life-size reproduction of man's organs of generation, and was altogether an admirable work of art. On one side of it were carved the lillies of France, and on the other side the three crescents of Diane de Poitiers.

No doubt this marvellous jewel had been the property of Monsieur de Saint Vallier's daughter, the widow of Monsieur de Breze and mistress of Francis I, and Henri II.

Florence examined it, with astonishment at first, then with curiosity, and finally with admiration. With astonishment, because it was the first time that she beheld and touched a. like object; with curiosity because she did not know how it worked; finally, with admiration, because Florence was a thorough artist, and it was a genuine work of art.

At the base of the instrument there was a cavity which came to view by unscrewing a portion of it, and that contained works almost as complicated as those of a clock, setting in motion a rod, which caused some liquid to spurt out in imitation of the natural process.

Florence was rather astonished, and wondered at the great size of the instrument, but the Countess, with a smile, replied by making some very elementary demonstrations and experiments. She applied the instrument to her own person, and so managed matters that in a short time it was altogether lost to view.

“You perceive how it works!” she said. “Yet you must confess that the receptacle is not apparently in proportion with its contents.”

Florence leaned forward to make a closer inspection.

There was indeed no exaggeration. What the Countess stated was perfectly correct.

At first she put her hand to the appliance and moved it up and down.

“Not without milk!” said the Countess, staying her hand.

Having now sufficiently admired the historical jewel, they next inspected another, which was enclosed in one of the velvet cases. This was a common dildoe, of the same description as those manufactured in France or England, but more artistically made than those which were designed at the time for Italian and Spanish convents, where a couple of millions were sold every year.

This one was similar to that of Diane de Poitiers, of the ordinary size, about five or six inches in length and flesh-coloured, but the contrivance for the emission of the liquid was not so complicated; as this one was not so artistic as the first, the two women paid less attention to it than to the beautiful instrument which had had the honour of being used by Diane de Poitiers.

They now went on to the third. On beholding this Florence gave a shriek of surprise and terror. No wonder, for it measured from seven to eight inches in length and five or six in circumference.

“Oh!” said she. “That one is not of Diane's. It is rather of Pasiphae!”

The Countess laughed.

“Therefore do I call it 'The Giant'. It is a curiosity from South America and gives us an idea of what the requirements of the ladies of Rio de Janiero, Caracas, Buenos Ayres and Lima may be.”

“But see how marvellous are the works of this affair.”

“Indeed it was a marvellous piece of workmanship, and was formed of some kind of gum highly-polished, each hair was set as if by one of the best hairdressers in Paris, and assuredly it had been cast, according to the practice of the sculptors, in a good mould from nature.”

“Why,” said Florence, who could not encompass it in her tiny hand. “This is a monster, and I do not believe there is a woman alive who could give a reception to such a huge thing.”

Odette smiled, but said nothing.

“But do reply,” said Florence, with impatience, “and do not laugh at me any more.”

“I am not laughing at you, my little Florence,” said Odette. “Now listen.”

“I listen,” said Florence.

“Should a woman wish to amuse herself with a jewel of that size, deliberately and without preliminary excitement, it could not be used without the greatest exertion, but supposing that two women mutually excite one another by all kinds of caresses, that the one who plays the lover, brings the other, the mistress to the highest pitch of salaciousness, she then applies the dildoe well coated with cold cream, and pushes it in gently, the thing will find an easy ingress and, once fairly home, will give the greatest possible pleasure.”

“Impossible!”

“Will you make the experiment?”

“Who shall I try it on?”

“On myself.”

“I shall split you open!”

“Am I split open?”

“Well; yes. Yes; I am willing,” cried Florence.

“Wait a moment.”

The Countess, who no doubt expected this event, had put some cream to warm in a small silver teapot on a spirit lamp.

She fetched the largest of the jewels, and drew from the same velvet bag an elastic belt.

“Come here,” said she to Florence, with quivering nostrils that told their tale.

“Why?” inquired Florence, quite frightened.

“That I may make a man of you.”

Florence drew near, the Countess encircled her waist with the belt, to which the dildoe was affixed in the proper position, and she placed in her hands the Renaissance jewel, prepared with lukewarm cream; then, kissing Florence, who trembled, and who now resembled a youth monstrously well treated by nature, she took off the counterpane and threw herself on the bed.

“Do what I tell you,” said she, “and obey all my instructions.”

“Have no fear,” said Florence, as excited as the Countess. “If you told me to tear you open I would do it.”

“Your mouth…”

Florence cast Diane's lover on the floor and began using her clever tongue to some purpose.

She felt this caress ought to vie with the rough caresses which were to ensue.

Odette replied with all the expressions of Lesbian tenderness. Florence was her friend, her angel, her heart, her life, her soul. The whole scale of sensual exclamations came one by one from her quivering lips, until, quite panting, she could only say: “Diane! Diane!”

Florence understood her, picked up the royal jewel, slipped it under her lips so there could be no interruption in the pleasure; and, in effect contrived in such a clever manner that the scale was unbroken, but went on with a. new degree of intensity. Florence kept her eyes fixed on the jewel. She saw it enter; glide out. The Countess now did not speak, but only gave utterance to little shrieks. Suddenly she cried:

“Themilk!…themilk!…”

Florence pressed the spring and a deep sigh showed that the Countess was experiencing the pleasure which is only given by coition, because that alone can satiate and calm. But the Countess knew that after this sensation another one was to come which only awaited the signal, and Florence in the midst of the plaintive ejaculations of her victim, made out the words: “The giant!… the giant!…”

Florence was expecting this request with impatience. The moment had come when she was to play her real part; she threw on the floor Diane's jewel, and began to play the part of a man with the greatest vigour. The Countess shrieked but strung herself up for the pain.

“Go-go on!… Oh! you are splitting me open! Go On! Ah! It is in!”

The Countess was not mistaken, it was indeed in, and the paroxysm of enjoyment was come. Then, quite maddened, she uttered cries of passion, shrieks of rage, among which might be heard almost inarticulate requests:

“Your mouth… your tongue… take my breasts; kiss the nipples. Oh gracious! how nice it is! Now the spring… Ah! my handsome giant!… Again! Again! Again!”

At last the Countess begged for mercy. Florence unclasped the belt and let it fall to the floor with its appendage.

The Countess lay stretched out full length and motionless on the bed.

Florence felt half mad with excitement. She filled again the ivory jewel with milk; leant back in the easy chair, and inserted the end of the dildoe until it touched her maidenhead. But soon she perceived that in this posture she lost part of her strength; so she sought another. She placed two pillows side by side on the easy chair, on which she rested her elbow, and she began to use the jewel in a manner which gave evidence of her skill and long habit; she harmonized the motion of her loins with the progress of pleasure; then, feeling it coming, she pushed the instrument home, gave a shriek of pain and of pleasure, and, imparting to the royal jewel the necessary movements, she fell back, almost fainting away with the exquisite sensation.

The beautiful Countess sat up on the bed and looked with astonishment. The proud young woman had kept her word. She had sacrificed her virginity to herself and herself alone.

We were three days and three nights without seeing the Countess, and on the fourth day she came to say that Violette might begin her lessons with Florence. After a scene of jealousy very well acted by the Countess, Florence gave her word that she would never interfere with Violette, limiting her attention to the development of her natural talent.

The union of the two disciples of Lesbos was consecrated, and the Countess acquired a marked liking for her new relations, without, however, in any way neglecting Violette, who for a long time continued in her studies with Florence and made a very successful debut.

Our delightful life of love thus went on for a few years; then, then… Ah! it is sad to say what happened. I wished to conclude here one of the most charming episodes of my existence. But since I have begun I must go to the end.

One evening, the Countess, who was always ready to take Violette away from me, found means to keep her in her box after a reception.

The child caught cold and began to cough. This was neglected. She became seriously ill, and as she seemed more excitable since her illness we loved one another too well, in spite of the remonstrances of the doctor and with the natural consequences.

She was very ill during the winter, lingered on through the summer, and when the autumn leaves began to strew the ground, we accompanied poor little Violette to her last resting-place.

Before expiring she had taken me in her arms, saying: “My own Christian, I love you.”

I had a large glass bell placed over her grave, and underneath the Countess and myself planted some of the flowers which had given her a name. For a long time we mourned her loss. Then Florence's love on the one side, and the incidents of everyday life on the other, effaced little by little the bitter recollection of the supreme parting.

I even forgot on the anniversary of her death to go and gather the tiny flowers, the roots of which fed on the substance of my beloved little mistress.

The Countess was more faithful to the memory of poor Violette, and sometimes sent me the flowers with but one word:

“Ungrateful man!”

And now that the story of our short-lived love has come to an end, I have nothing more to do than roll up my MS., tie it up, and, happen what may, I throw it at random on the desk of some intelligent publisher who may be clever enough to catch it up.

Sweet Seventeen Sweet Seventeen: the True Story of a Daughter's Awful Whipping and its Delightful if Direful Consequence

Anonymous

What is there in the air of Paris which leads us all on to excesses of erotic appetite? Why is sensual gratification the be-all and end-all of the dwellers in the French capital, not dubbed the “Gay City” for nothing?

The atmosphere is transparently clear; the climate is relaxing. Most of the Parisian females are anaemic, and their nerves get the upper hand. Is it the same with the males, perchance in a lesser degree, so that we may diffidently put forward the hypothesis that neuropaths predominate in the population of the pretty town?

There is not the slightest doubt, be the reasons what they may, that the craving for copulation takes hold of the most frigid individuals of both sexes when once they live within the Lutetian walls.

Oliver Sandcross, born and bred in London, was a splendid example of our bold sweeping theory. Here was an English gentleman, well brought up, and a noted engineer, rather pious too-that is the extraordinary part of it all-who developed the most satyr-like tastes when he settled down in Paris, with his wife and only child, a daughter. The capricious fairy, electricity, whose secrets have only been but slightly fathomed in the last few years, had tempted staid Oliver, and he became one of the most ardent seekers after the advantages to be gained in subjugating this new force. Brilliant offers, relating to lighting and tramways, had caused him to take up his residence in Paris, where, originally wealthy, he made more money than he knew what to do with.

Soon after his arrival, his religious habits dropped away from him, and after business hours he found the greatest pleasure and delight in hunting for feminine prey among venal beauties of all ranks. He admitted every specimen to the album of his fancy, from the married woman, met with at friends' houses and received in his own, to the short-skirted, twelve-year-old flower-girl of the Boulevards. Of the intermediate stages on the rungs of the ladder of lust, it would take us too long to talk, although a classification of Paris prostitution would be a tempting task for the student of psychopathy-if indeed it were possible to establish in schematic form the odds and ends of masculine and feminine humanity which go to make up the alluring and ever-changing kaleidoscope of Paris “on the loose”.

Mr. Sandcross had tried everything in turns and nothing long, and his libidinous, almost insensate curiosity had led him to essay what new joys could be found in the depilated arms of effeminate, degenerate lads; some who had proposed themselves to the merry, rich Englishman in good society and others fresh from the workbench, selling their half-starved bodies for pocket-money. In justice to our sturdy Anglo-Saxon, we hasten to state that Socratic vice did not hold him long. His curiosity glutted, he returned to lavish his money on the petticoated little animals who are said to rule the world because their hands rock the cradle. But we think their domination arises from the fact of us men placing our sceptre in their adroit fingers.

Oliver Sandcross confessed to forty-seven years of age when he first came to live in France, a few years ago, and he was a fine specimen of a fifty-year-old rake. He was fair, bald, with a florid complexion and a brown beard rapidly getting white; not too tall; very stout; fine eyes, and a fleshy mouth moist with lechery and full of real sound teeth. In fact, the type of an arthritic, healthy, athletic voluptuary, full of energetic lewdness, with only room in his brain for two hobbies: electricity, with which he obtained gold, and voluptuousness which led him to scatter the yellow coins broadcast.

There was nothing to check him in his lustful career. Moral scruples he had none, remorse and repentance had been left on the threshold of the last church he had frequented, and his wife, luckily for him, never troubled him. She was a pure-minded English gentlewoman, very pretty, and full of love for her husband. She swore by him, adored him, tended him, and he comprised the whole world for her. There was plenty of jealousy in her composition, but it had never been aroused, because nothing could shake her faith in her Oliver. He was the soul of honour in her eyes, incapable of telling a lie or doing a mean action. Had Mrs. Sandcross found her lord in the arms of another woman, she would have turned away from the disgusting sight, merely marvelling at the wonderful resemblance to her husband of the man she had seen. Her good, kind female friends, following the promptings of Christian duty, had tried to perform the mischievous operation known “as opening her eyes”. They had all signally failed, for the simple reason that this confiding helpmate did not really understand their perfidious innuendoes. One and all came to the ultimate conclusion that Mrs. Sandcross was either a born fool, or else she shut her eyes to her husband's “goings-on", and therefore they left her to enjoy a life of felicity in her fool's paradise. She was indeed a most happy woman, bathing in daily delight between the attentions of her kind husband, who was generous to a fault, careful, and thoughtful; grateful at not being troubled by the woman who bore his name and looked after his household, and the unceasing devotion of her handsome daughter.

No lovelier creature, no more perfect picture of a graceful English virgin could have been seen than Fanny Sandcross, the petted offspring of a lewd father and an indulgent mother. Miss Sandcross was tall-too tall, said hypercritical observers-overtopping her father by an inch or two. But what perfection of form; firm bust; tiny waist; swelling hips; massive spherical posteriors; wee feet and hands; satin, fair skin; masses of auburn hair; a tip-tilted, thoroughly Anglo-Saxon nose; with rose-leaf nostrils palpitating at the least emotion; a small mouth with pulpy red lips, and her father's perfect dentition. Her eyes would have been nearly sufficient to cause her to be adored even were her other charms less overpowering. They were blue, grey, or violet; according to the light, or the ideas of colour of the person who looked at her, but we should say they were of the last-named rare hue. Shaded with long lashes and surmounted by arched brows, they were full of ever-changing expression, but what dominated was a look of almost babyish curiosity. She seemed always as if just born to the world and its mysteries; as if interrogating her interlocutor and begging him to tell her something more; some fact that he might be hiding from her. Fanny gave the impression of perfect innocence and purity, and her portrait when she was fifteen would have formed a model embodiment of unspoiled girlhood.

It is far from wonderful for a maid to conduct herself with all the artlessness of a sweet angelic creature as yet unsullied by the least polluting contact; guarded by vigilant parents from surroundings calculated to tarnish the mirror of her virtue, but what was miraculous in the case of the beautiful Miss Sandcross was that she knew everything that a young girl of fifteen should not know. The more her terrible precocious insight into the secrets of sex increased, the more artless was her bearing. Some ancient Puritan strain must have caused her naturally to be able to touch pitch with an outward semblance of undefiled sinlessness which we may mention at once never left her all her life.

When we say her cognizance of forbidden subjects was peculiar and extensive, it must be understood that she was fully enlightened on all womanly mysteries, and there was no vice of venery which she could not catalogue, but her comprehension of the lascivious list of the hidden vices of humanity was far from being categorically formulated in her budding brain. What she knew, she had heard about and read about, but it had not yet taken a real shape in her mind. She was like a young lad revelling in the perusal of military history and bloody battles, but quite unable to realize the horrors of warfare and its saddening results.

This young damsel had been initiated in a very simple manner. When she came to Paris with her parents, she was fourteen and fresh from an English select academy for young ladies. Her mother, wrapped up in her husband and her own comforts, never troubled about her daughter's inner consciousness. It was true she would not allow her Fanny to be exposed to the contamination of a French school and took care to have her education terminated at home, by the aid of governesses. Miss Sand-cross was exceedingly quick and intelligent, and would soon have been able to teach her teachers. Her English and French were perfection; she had a smattering of German and Italian; and was a natural pianist and a fair singer. But the ladies who came to give her lessons were retained, more as companions for her, or chaperons, as it is an inflexible unwritten law that no single girl can be allowed to go about Paris alone.

The governesses were often changed. They underwent two distinct ordeals. First of all, their sweet young pupil pumped them as dry as she could, never ceasing to ply them with questions relating to tabooed topics: matrimony and kindred matters. Secondly, if they were at all well-favoured and desirous of keeping their situation, they had to submit to Mr. Sandcross's caresses. If they were virtuous they did not remain long in the rich electrician's flat; being unwilling to answer the daughter's queer queries, and revolting at the father's rudeness.

These intrigues were unknown to the mother, but Fanny, without having any idea that her dear father had really possessed most of her governesses entirely, perceived clearly that he liked to flirt with them. Sand-cross was really very excited over all the girls coming in contact with his daughter. It seemed to increase his enjoyment, when he thought that Fanny was constantly being attended by her father's mistresses. The knowledge that one of these lady companions went out to a matinee or concert with his daughter after a hasty upright encounter in his private den, without having had time to cleanse herself from the final spurt of his lubricity, lifted him far above the ordinary haven of debauchees, and landed him into some celestial unknown space of aphrodisiacal ether.

From thence to falling madly in love with his own charming offspring was but a step, and he took it boldly, firmly, and resolutely. Fanny was seventeen when he woke up one fine morning and found out while having his bath that if he did not deflower his own flesh and blood, he would be most unhappy. He suddenly saw that he had been in love with her for a very long time, but did not realize his own passion. Now that he felt his bold longing tightly clutching his brain, it may be imagined that he tried in some way or another to try and overcome his unnatural desire, or fought against the criminal passion. Not at all. He never troubled so far, merely meaning to try and enjoy his own girl, if he could; and if he did not succeed-well, it would be time enough then to see what could be done. The fact is, so many women had dropped down before him, ready to place themselves in any posture that best pleased him, that he hardly fancied Fanny would resist him any more than the others. They were strangers. He had no influence over them, and yet their seduction was not difficult. How much more easy to allure and entice his own daughter, fond of pleasure-going, dress, and jewellery? Moreover, he felt sure she loved him, for he had been the best of fathers to her up to the present. At least, so he thought, according to his lights. He had made her his companion to a certain extent. His wife was lazy, fond of good cooking and novel-reading. She could manage a house very well, and keep servants in order, but when her daily task of organizing work and having meals properly cooked and punctually served was over, she was content to sink into an armchair and cry showers of tears over some silly tale of love. She was glad when her husband took Fanny out of an evening, and did not trouble about what time they came home or where they went. Thus it was that Miss Sandcross had gone with the author of her being to all the second-rate theatres where spicy comedies of adultery and salacious intrigue are played. The variety halls had no mysteries for her. She sat unconcerned in the private boxes of the Folies-Decolletees, and her pa told her the latest echoes of the wings, concerning the amours of Juanita la Torticula, the lovely Spanish dancer who had formed a Lesbian liaison with Phyllis de Honiton, a high-kicking goddess starring at the same establishment. Mr. Sandcross did not say so in as many words to his pretty daughter, but when she put up her fan, as if to hide a blush, and nodded as much to say, “Yes, pa, I know!” he felt that his dear little Fanny was au fait. It did not seem strange to him that she should know what a cocotte was, or that she should have heard who kept such and such a notorious prostitute of Paris. His daughter was seventeen, and most girls at that age learnt from their companions what was what, didn't they?

He was not alarmed to see her devour the raciest of modern French pornographical novels, and he himself purchased and took home to her every week the “bluest” and broadest comic papers, where naked bosoms above, and well-filled embroidered drawers below give purchasers of the suggestive pictures scarcely anything to guess at between the lines and legs. The mother's listless-ness allowed Fanny's thoughts to run in a very muddy channel. The young lady was not corrupted, because there was nothing to corrupt. Her perversity was natural, she was born that way, and her licentious predisposition was encouraged, instead of being toned down by proper home life and true womanly aspirations.

After the theatre, dressed in the height of fashion, wearing costly diamond rings and beautiful jewellery, all given to her by her doting father, Fanny, radiant in her tight-fitting frock and picture-hat, would sup tete-a-tete with her papa in the public room of some swell restaurant, where the tziganes played, and high-class painted beauties in society and of the half-world, assembled to carry on the business of selling their bodies to the highest bidder, strictly without reserve.

When next day, Sandcross was complimented by acquaintances on the comeliness of the lovely young girl supping with him the night before, he would, according to his humour, smile and change the subject, or maybe tell his friends it was his daughter. When they refused to believe him, perfectly certain that no self-respecting parent would take his daughter to places which after all were little better than common nighthouses, and chuckling, call him a sly dog, our prodigal father was delighted and would laugh at the joke with Fanny when he got home.

When his carnal craving suddenly arose in his being and he resolved to try and seduce his daughter, he turned the matter over in his mind and saw that he had very little more to do, having unconsciously prepared her for her fall ever since she had attained the age of puberty.

More books for her to read, perhaps a little stronger, if he could obtain anything more tropical without being downright bawdy; a few finer finger rings; a new dress or two; boxes for first nights and suppers at the most brilliant resorts. What more could he do? He would try kisses and sly touches to arouse her passion.

At this moment Fanny was seventeen and papa got his wife to imagine that it was she herself who had decided that their daughter needed no governess. She could go out with her music-mistress now and again; with lady friends or her mamma; by herself in the motor-car, or in a taxi, but never on foot-and after all was he not there to take her out with him, if she got dull, now and again? Mrs. Sandcross, as usual, was pleased to find her paragon of a husband good enough to trouble himself about his daughter, until she got married. Mr. Sandcross frowned as he heard the last word, curtly saying he would see all about that in good time, and leaving his better half, he took Fanny out to a music-hall where a very smutty revue was being played. The actresses wore no shoulder-straps to their low-necked costumes, and he liked to see his daughter blush, when the brazen hussies showed the slobbering stallites the black bouquets of their armpits.

It was not the first time by far that the father and daughter had gone to spend the evening at a place of entertainment, but Sandcross had never experienced the sharp pangs of lustful yearning that thrilled him on this occasion. He had indulged in extra wine at dinner at home, and towards the end of the repast had called for a bottle of champagne to be uncorked, of which Fanny had partaken.

In the carriage her sapphire orbs were sparkling with rays of light. She felt jolly and told her father so. He replied by placing his arm round her waist and kissing her cheek. She was not surprised; he often did so. But she did think he was really too affectionate that evening, for he kept his arm behind her all the way to the music-hall, and his face was near her shoulder. He eagerly inhaled the natural, sweet fragrance arising from her full frame, and regretted that the scent which she used so liberally half effaced the true perfume of womankind. Sandcross made remarks on his daughter's dress, criticising the fit of the corsage, enabling him to pass his feverish trembling ringers over her proudly swelling breasts, until she pushed his hand away with a laugh, telling her pa how ticklish she was. It must not be thought that she had the slightest lascivious feelings while her papa tried to tousle her as much as he dared, not wishing to disarrange her toilette in the cramped carriage, for despite all her enlightenment, or perhaps because of her comprehension of sensual secrets, she had as yet never experienced the slightest thrill of melting consciousness in the innermost recesses of her temple of love.

She only thought her father was quite too awfully tender-hearted when he had enjoyed a good dinner and an extra glass of wine.

All the evening, in the private box, papa sat close behind her. She felt his hot breath on her neck and ears; and his knees pressed into her hard buttocks as they fully covered the seat of her chair. At every obscene joke, his elbow nudged her, or he touched her arm. She smiled at him archly, but would quickly open her fan, or take up her glasses with a vacant air of infantile wonderment.

She was greatly admired, and Sandcross revelled in the atmosphere of admiration environing his offspring. Between the acts, men in faultless evening dress came and stood in front of the box, twisting their moustaches, shooting out their cuffs, and trying to ogle her, some timidly, others with bold, offensive effrontery. Then she was full of joy, as she felt coming towards her the ardent desire of these libidinous men about town. They all wanted her; she knew it and felt it, her pretty little nostrils fluttering as she inhaled the invisible incense of their exasperated manhood. She knew too that they had no thought of pure affection, or devotion in the state of matrimony. Fanny was aware that their eyes were undressing her and the idea that they all longed to see her naked and wanted to get into bed with her to accomplish that mysterious penetration which it appeared was so delightful, made her heart beat with a sensation of great rapture, as she coolly noted the combined effects of her beauty, tasteful dress, and fine eyes. Other feelings, deeper and more intoxicating, would doubtless come soon, once Pygmalion should appear to animate the organs of her sex with the sacred spark of pleasure, but at present all was dormant in her grotto of Venus.

In the motor-car, papa was still more pressing. He talked of the actresses on the stage, of the be-jewelled harlots in the auditorium, and compared their charms with those of his daughter. The leading lady in the obscene play they had just witnessed was not so well made as my darling, Mr. Sandcross remarked. She was too fat here, and not well pulled in there; while as for her thighs, they were as thick almost at the knee as up here, and at every “here” and “there", his hands pinched, pressed and patted the corresponding parts of his own girl's body, but she only languidly pushed his encroaching fingers away with a gesture of impatience.

They had a supper at a restaurant which kept open all night, and where an orchestra started playing when the theatres closed. All the tables were engaged by noted whores, and catalogued and classified married women; leaders of feminine fashion, who were known for their long retinues of lovers, their openly avowed normal vices, and their scarcely hidden abnormal tastes.

A gorgeous female of about thirty-five years of age was supping at a table opposite them and she never took her eyes off lovely Fanny. Sandcross saw the languid imploring glances directed at his daughter and called her attention to the insistent leer of the painted lady. Miss Sandcross stared at her papa with widely opened eyes and coolly replied that she had seen and noted everything.

“She showed me the end of her tongue just now-the silly creature!” said Fanny. “Wouldn't you have liked to have seen her doing that?”

“Yes, indeed I would!” replied Sandcross, drinking a second petit verre. “Try and get her on again. Smile at her a little, Fan, and perhaps she'll do it once more. She's dying to kiss you, you know!”

“Don't be so stupid, pa!” replied Miss Sandcross, coldly and scornfully, but without a blush or a movement either of approval or disgust. “Wouldn't it be better to pay and go at once? It's awfully late and these people will be getting noisy soon and begin to throw things at each other as usual. And you'll be incapable of conducting me out of here, for if we don't hurry I shall have to carry you myself!”

Papa, always attentive to the smallest wish of his adored girl, soon led her to the car, and held her tight to him all the way home. He was dying to kiss her, but did not dare. Fanny merely said that he was a most horrible papa when he was tipsy, and sat quietly half asleep, yawning now and again, one hemisphere of her splendid backside resting on his knee, while his left arm encircled her waist, his hand clasped over her left breast, and his lips almost touching her right ear.

All was quiet when they reached the sumptuous flat of the Boulevard Haussmann where Mr. Sandcross lived. The servants were on the sixth floor according to the custom in Paris, and Mrs. Sandcross was fast asleep, having eaten too much-gormandizing was her only vice- snoring heavily in her own room, for her husband had long since slept away from her for reasons that can be well understood.

Fanny was tired and dying to get to bed, although her father wished her to sit with him a little while in the dining-room, while he mixed himself a whisky and soda. She refused and left him. He wanted to kiss her as she said good-night, but she demurred with a laugh, saying that he had embraced her enough that evening, and pirouetting saucily, retired to her own chamber.

Sandcross stood erect in the middle of the room, staring after her. He trembled with lust and undefined desire; the blood rushing to his head and obscuring his vision. She must be his. None but he should possess her. But how and when? He knew from his experience of womankind that she had as yet no real feelings of sensual excitement, and there was little chance that he as her father would ever be able to arouse them. Yet he longed for her, and the thought of the crime he was meditating never once entered his mind. There was no thought of enjoyment increased by incest such as might have struck some worn-out debauchee. He loved Fanny with all the strength of his soul, and he had never felt like this with any other woman. It was his first love and his last.

“She must be mine, by God!” he exclaimed, half aloud, his heart beating, and a hundred hammers tapping inside his skull, as he cautiously crept towards Fanny's room and knocked lightly. In reply to her request to know who was there, her papa replied:

“It's all right! Let me in, I want to speak to you.”

Recognizing her father's voice, she opened the door and he entered quickly.

Fanny had already begun to disrobe, having taken off her dress. She was in her stays of light blue satin. They were very short, forming almost only a girdle and her large breasts could nearly be viewed entirely, nestling in the lace insertions of her chemise, which was also ornamented with narrow turquoise ribbon tied under her round globes in front, in the style of the gowns of the First Empire. She wore a short petticoat of white chiffon, and mouse-coloured silk stockings to match her little high-heeled suede leather low shoes. Her magnificent hair was tumbling about her shoulders, and as she stood beneath the white glare of her electric lamps, facing her father, who trembled in front of her, his features crimson with excitement, she was indeed a marvellous type of youthful beauty and in a few years all men would be at her feet.

“I can't find the key of the tantalus, my girl!” said her father, huskily.

“I'm sure I don't know what's become of it! I never have it, pa!”

Sandcross fidgeted a little and then turned as if to go.

“Well, I suppose I must do without my whisky tonight.” He stopped short, looking about him. “This is a nice comfortable room, and you have arranged it with great taste. There are your books, and your drawings- and what a lot of knick-knacks and souvenirs! Aren't you afraid of breaking them?”

Fanny did not seem to trouble much about her pa's questions, thinking he was very tiresome that evening, and she sat down and began to pull off her shoes.

Sandcross came to her, and stroked her luxuriant tresses. “What lovely hair! How well it looks on your shoulders! How long it is!” He stroked her bare shoulder and patted her plump, naked arms.

“Aren't you going to bed tonight, pa?” rejoined Fanny, with a laugh which terminated in a yawn.

Sandcross, breathing heavily, bent his scarlet face near hers.

“Yes, Fan. Don't you bother. Give me a kiss!”

“You are a tease! Well, there! I'll kiss you goodnight and then you must go!”

She turned her face towards his, and he threw his arm round her neck, pressing his lips to hers in the most lewd manner. His fleshy mouth was half open and he thrust his tongue boldly in between her parted ripe lips, taking her quite by surprise.

She dragged herself away from him, with a movement of unutterable disgust thrilling through her entire body. Never had she been embraced in this vile way. Here was something she did not know after all. Kisses she had read about often, and knew that loving couples “glued” their lips together, but the insertion of a man's hot tongue in her cool mouth, choking her with wine and tobacco-flavoured, burning breath was too unutterably horrible. And then it was her father's mouth too! Was he mad or drunk? A sickening qualm caused the twin snowy mountains in her stays to rise and fall rapidly as she retreated to her bed, and placing her back to it, exclaimed, as she frantically wiped her lips with her hand:

“Oh papa! How dirty of you!”

But as she glanced at him, she noticed the horrible grimace of coming concupiscence that twisted his lineaments awry; his dilated revulsed eyes; a speck of white foam at the corner of his mouth-and a flood of light burst in upon her brain. She knew at last! He desired the enjoyment and possession of her body also-he, like the rest of the men, hungered for her-he, her father!

“You filthy beast!” she gasped, her eyes flashing disgust.

Deaf to everything save the promptings of unnatural carnality, he advanced towards Fanny, his arms outstretched, as if to seize her.

“I've longed for that kiss for years. I must have your lips again!”

Quick as lightning, she threw out her right arm and struck him full in the face, marking his cheek with the vermilion imprint of her lithe fingers.

Mad with rage and disappointment; furious to have to see the loathing scorn on the face of the beautiful daughter he adored, he rushed towards her with a guttural cry of mingled vexation and pain at the smart of the stinging slap. Throwing her on the bed face downwards, he held her firmly there, despite her struggles, pulling up her petticoat and casting it over her loins.

“Let me alone!” she murmured, struggling violently. “I'll rouse the house and call for ma!”

“I defy you to, hussy! You know how your mother believes in me! I'll lie to her and say you called me to your bed. You dare not do what you say-you would kill her! I'm going to punish you for your assault on me!”

He exposed the swelling expanse of her rotund posteriors, pulling at the cambric drawers which matched her chemise, and dragging them down to her heels.

She was too amazed and frightened to cry out, and indeed she feared the terrible scandal that would arise if she woke her mother. Before she had time to come to a resolution, or put her wildly scattered thoughts in order, a resounding slap from her enraged papa's open hand fell on the right cheek of her majestic bottom.

“Enough, father! Don't disgrace me! How dare you strip me like this?”

“Hold your tongue, hussy!” he replied, in a thick whisper, as he spanked the whole surface of her posteriors as hard as he could, reddening them all over. “You're my child, and you must obey me! I'll crush your pride!”

Delirious with lust and erotic rage; gloating over the sight of his desired daughter's naked flesh; revelling in the touch of his feverish palm on her smooth skin, he beat her with his hand until her backside was swollen and of a dark-brown hue. She writhed and moaned, sobbing hysterically, but biting the blanket so as to stifle her cries.

His right hand ached, and having regained his self-possession in some slight degree, he crossed over and struck at her tortured bum with his left.

“Oh! papa, do let me go! It burns! You do hurt me so dreadfully! Oh! Oh! Ah!”

“This is nothing, my beauty!” said Sandcross, with a laugh. “Tomorrow I'll get a rod, and a whip, and flog you within an inch of your life! I'll teach you to disobey your poor old father! Take that, miss; and that; and that!”

Again the remorseless hands fell with greater force than ever, raising little blue bumps here and there in the brown shading that obscured her queenly hinder beauties.

“Oh! Oh, papa! What humiliation! Do please leave off! Turn out the light! Don't look at me all bare-oh! ah! Don't-don't hit me any more!”

“Will-you-be-quiet?” retorted her father, striking fiercely and slowly at each word. “Missy don't like the humiliation, don't she? Ha! ha! I can see your bottom and your thighs-yes, your naked thighs, dear, and your pretty calves and feet!”

Despite his coarse utterances, he did not forget to still batter her martyred bottom with all his might, and the skin being of the finest texture now began to break. Little streaks of blood appeared, oozing out in different directions from the raised bruises which turned black.

Low moans issued from her throat. She writhed and twisted in all directions, once placing her hands behind her in a futile attempt to protect her buttocks. Sand-cross struck at her wrists and she hurriedly drew her arms away.

“Enough, papa! Enough!”

“Beg my pardon!” said Sandcross, as he now inflicted swinging blows at her hitherto untouched thighs.

“Not there! Not there, papa!”

“Will-you-beg-my-pardon? I'll hit you where I like! I'll strip you naked and flay you alive, if I choose! Am I not your father?”

“Yes! Y-e-e-s-pa! I beg your pardon-I do indeed!”

She was now quite subdued and conquered, reclining quietly on her stomach, her body wriggling from side to side, and heaving her buttocks up and down. She sighed heavily, and muffled sobs came from between her ringers, as she now clasped her hands before her face.

“Promise to kiss me of your own free will and I'll let you off!” said the cruel father, as he contemplated with lewd joy Fanny's reddened, fat thighs.

From her loins to the tops of her stockings, not an inch of skin had escaped the effects of Sandcross's awful punishment. All was red, contused, of a reddish-brown tint, and on the buttocks the skin was broken; bleeding in many places.

Fanny's father waited for an answer, as he finally desisted. He was fatigued, both his hands were benumbed, and he felt quite exhausted, but happy, with a glorious exciting inward upheaval of satisfaction. The pleasure of cruel conquest; the delight at having crushed the rebellious spirit of the daughter he coveted was something too great for words to qualify.

His girl's reply came at last, and in such a fashion as to thoroughly surprise him.

She slowly turned round, unable to rise entirely from the bed, and utterly regardless of the indecency of her posture, as she showed fully three-quarters of the front part of her body; her breasts escaping from her twisted stays, the nipple-buds showing above the lace-trimmed edge; her drawers disarranged in front, exposing part of her virgin soft fleece, she held out her arms to her father, and through the tears that veiled the lustre of her eyes, a glorious smile lit up her tearful face. She murmured in French, couched in a low, loving whisper:

“Viens! Prends-moi! Prends-moi! Je t'aime!”

His brain reeling, every nerve thrilling, and a prey to rampant, ungovernable lust, Sandcross threw himself on his daughter. His mouth sought hers, and their tongues met in a libidinous, long, luscious caress. He rolled upon the bed grasping her willing body, and pressing her close to him. They neither spoke, but the father groaned with exacerbated longing, and his daughter gave forth deep sighs of satisfaction. While their mouths were joined, the profligate parent's hands eagerly pressed every bit of naked flesh he could find: the neck, chest, and the upper halves of the beautiful hard breasts heaving by reason of the tempest within; the burning backside and thighs; arms, hands, and hair. He plunged his fingers into the waves of her tresses, and even passed their tips over her face. Would their mouths never separate? They bit and sucked each other's lips, and Sandcross was intoxicated with her velvet saliva, fragrant and fresh.

“Love me, Fan! Love me and let me love you!” he whispered at length, as he sucked and bit at her well-formed, tiny ears, brilliant as pink pearls.

“I love you, pa! You know I do!”

Sandcross fingered at her stays. She disengaged herself from his arms for a second, and unclasping the busk, threw the corset behind her. With insane delight, her father pressed the hard globes, and found both nipples erect. He pulled down the chemise to kiss and lick the twin strawberries, one by one. While he did so, she dragged her arms out of the straps of her filmy garment, and was about to unfasten her petticoat and drawers, when the sucking caress of Sandcross produced the effect he wished, and with a lowing, loving, cooing sound, she fell on his lips again. He tugged at her petticoat. She understood, drawing it off and her drawers too. She was naked with the exception of stockings and shoes. He stood her up erect, admiring her unveiled frame, worthy of being copied in marble, and falling on his knees before her, kissed her thighs, and passed the end of his tongue through the mossy bush that concealed the sign of her sex. She clipped her legs fast together at this soft embrace, and placing her hand on his face, tried to close his eyes with her soft palm. Weak with the awaken-encroaching feelings of lust that racked her virginal body, she fell over him, about to faint with rapture, from the effects of the wave of unknown voluptuous sensations submerging her being. He lifted her up and threw her gently on her back on the bed, her legs dangling over the edge. Standing between her unresisting thighs, he parted them widely. His trembling digits tore at his trousers and braces. He felt that if he tarried but another second or two, nature would betray him. Hastily clutching a towel from the horse on his left, he lifted up his girl, and slipped it under her. She reclined with closed lids, one arm flung over her face, to hide it, and protect her eyes from the strong, searching electric light which made her white body look whiter still. He threw himself upon her. This contact caused her to shudder with delight, and fresh elixir sprung from her hidden source of future motherhood. She pushed up to meet the coming onslaught. Her sex prompted her, but she did not know what was in store for her, as she held out her arms to her father. He bent down and she clasped him to her breast, seeking always for his mouth. His tongue gambolled with hers. Now she shrank from him, and bit her left wrist to stifle her groan of pain. He held her fast now and gained at each powerful thrust. She writhed in agony, and was no longer moist. He panted with delight, feeling the commencement of his climax.

He fell on her breast, exhausted, half unconscious swimming in a sea of satisfied lewd joy, while Fanny sobbed partly in exquisite agony, and feeling a rending pain in each groin.

Sandcross rose at last, and drew the towel, now stained with blood, between her legs, trying to wipe the ensanguined secret recess. This caused her to sit up, and she hid her tearful face on her father's breast.

Now only did he feel a little uneasy. The door was actually ajar. They might have been heard? No, all was quiet. He whispered to Fanny to move gently from the bed, and placed her on the bidet. He kissed the toilet napkin with its scarlet spots, and she smiled through her tears while he did so, and as she saw him fold it up and place it in his pocket. She was not surprised, nor disgusted at seeing her father thus standing before her, his gradually shrinking instrument shamelessly dangling before her eyes.

“Do you forgive me?” he said, one tiny ray of remorse -the first and last-illumining the depths of his soul, obscured by the black clouds of incestuous lust.

“Yes, father. I love you! I regret nothing. I only want you to love me always!”

“Hush, Fan!” he rejoined, fearful as she raised her voice in her excitement. “I swear never to fail you. You're mine, doubly so, by mutual love and right of relationship. Trust in me and your life shall be one dream of happiness.”

And so they kissed again. He put her in bed and tucked her up comfortably, whispering how he had done that when she was a tiny little baby girlie. She smiled at him, gratefully and happy as an angel, as he enquired if she was in pain.

“Down there-you know, pa-between my thighs- legs, I mean. And behind too! Oh! how you hurt me! I never knew your hands were so hard!”

“Poor girl! I'll never slap you again!”

“Oh yes, you may!”

In most childish confusion she threw her white tired arms around his neck, her lips skimming over his moustache, as she murmured: “I like it! It was that spanking which made me feel I loved you, darling pa!”

As her nervous system gradually reverted to its normal state of quietude, so the babyish look returned to her violet eyes, and her face was as full of innocence as heretofore.

“Good night, my own papa! Good night, dear love – my father- and my love!”

With a last kiss – a pure, chaste touch of her closed lips this time – she turned and slept like a child, sinking at once into hearty slumber.

Sandcross looked enraptured at her for a second, and switching off the light retired on tiptoe to his own room. Two or three times did he return in the night to kiss his loving girl, who still slept on, until he dared no longer show himself as the servants arrived through the kitchen at six o'clock.

Next day, Fanny stayed in bed, scolded tenderly for her love of theatres and suppers by her affectionate mother, although she could well understand the allurement of a coup of iced consomme and a truffle or two after the enjoyment of a new play.

The guilty couple now sailed on a calm and laughing lake of unmitigated wanton voluptuousness. Sandcross and his daughter lived through a perpetual honeymoon, and the electrician's wife was charmed to see such a perfect union, suspecting of course nothing whatever. A mother is always the last to grasp the guilt of her children. Sandcross's wife compared the life of their daughter with that of other girls in Paris; fretful, bickering, coquettish maidens, suffering from green sickness, and perpetually worrying their poor parents to get them a husband so that the wayward up-to-date damsels shall be at liberty to love – other men of their own choice.

Fanny grew exceptionally obedient and meek. Her chorus of “Yes, ma!” and “Yes, pa!” would have made the recording angel retire from business, had not the devil been there to whisper in his ear the secret of incestuous lechery that kept Fanny so outwardly calm. Indeed, when matrimony was mentioned it was she who consoled her mamma, impatient to see her daughter smothered in orange-blossoms and white faille.

“What are the men about?” she would sigh, and worry her husband to leave France, and settle in England, Saxon suitors not being so mercenary as the sons of Gaul.

In the meanwhile, Fanny and her father slipped into each other's rooms at night whenever it suited them, and that was very often.

From the point of view of simple salacity, it is perfectly certain that nothing can equal the enjoyment to be found with a young girl, really loving the man who has deflowered her. Her sensual being gradually develops in the arms of a male who is, for the time being, all in all to her-the one man in whom every thought and desire is centred. The surprises of slowly approaching womanhood, and the first thrills of ravishing, immodest pleasure and pruriency have all arisen in her under his influence. She becomes his devoted slave, thankful for a kiss, and brimming over with gratitude for the deeper insidious final caress when he chooses to bestow it upon her.

There was another and more cynical standpoint which we must not forget, which will rejoice the heart of all those who find the power of their passions weirdly increased by inflicting punishment upon the object of their affections. To be able to hurt the loved one, mingling pleasure and pain at one's sweet will, certain that the dolent martyr will eagerly kiss the hand that brandishes the birch, is not that a most enchanting dream of overpowering delight?

Fanny's first sensual spasm was due to spanking, and the desire to be flogged would thus last all her life, inseparable from other yearnings. A young woman, whipped by her first lover, nearly always falls under the spell of the enchanted twigs. It seems as if the rod, red-hot, burnt into the brain, indelibly searing the imagination of the so-called victim. Such is the invisible brand of the birch.

Papa taught her everything that a woman could possibly require to know, especially those tit-bits of refined scientific stupration which females are generally better without. What a difference to the half-veiled semi-falsehoods of her silly governesses! Here was practice and theory.

What delighted Fanny most was Sandcross's staff of life itself; the tremendous instrument from which had sprung the mysterious germ of her existence. Alone with her father, she must need free the blind bird from its cage, and at rest, or proudly standing, it was unceasingly the object of her wondering admiration. She would play with it for hours, kissing it, talking to it, purring over it, examining it as if she saw it for the first time whenever her avidious hand dived deeply down in the folds of her father's underwear. When her eager, tickling touches caused her pa's excitement to bring him close to the goal of the orgasm, she fell back on his big hairy purse, playfully handling and dandling the slumbering olives which she deliriously exclaimed were her twin idols. She had sprung from their white foam like another Venus rising from a sea of sperm, and now they gave her the sole pleasure she hungered for in this world. How could she help worshipping them?

There was not the slightest shadow of repentance or remorse to darken the dazzling path leading through their waking dream of highly refined voluptuousness, and if it were possible for either of them to have given utterance to any inward prayer whatsoever, they would have lifted up their hearts in some song of touching, joyful thanksgiving to the unknown power that had created the daughter for the father, and the father for the daughter.

Fanny, by dint of perpetually playing a part, grew in time to be a most perfect actress and a ready, able, tricky liar. She gloried in her hypocrisy, and now and then amused herself by skating on the thinnest of ice, tempting Providence, and abandoning her mouth and body to the most shameless caresses, before her mother's back was scarcely turned.

Sandcross developed a new malady which he had invented himself-a kind of intermittent insomnia. He had irregular attacks of sleeplessness, enabling him to wander about the house at nights, and thus furnishing excuses for all noises and sounds of footsteps which might be heard in the small hours. His only cure was a glass of soda-water liberally dashed with spirits about two in the morning, with a cigar-and his wily, lustful daughter of the innocent violet eyes, to keep him company. She would then read to him chapters from ultra-naughty novels in French, English, and German, printed on the sly, and soon was a walking encyclopedia of love, passion, and bawdiness. She rolled with radiant ecstasy in the slough of her shame, proud of being her own father's mistress, and always eager to learn fresh secrets of licentiousness.

In spite of all his scoldings and alarms she would never permit him those exercises known to Malthusian couples as “withdrawing", nor practise any fraudulent tricks to hinder conception. Copulation, without the final shower of soft seed, she opined was like kissing a woman or a priest, something very nice, but detestably incomplete. If she fell in the family way, she declared she would retire to Switzerland, or Belgium, and under a false name bring her dear baby into the world. She unblushingly declared to her father that she secretly longed to find herself enceinte, and would be pleased beyond measure to bear a boy, for preference, the picture she hoped of the dual father and grandfather.

Luckily her womb remained refractory, although she did all she could to bring about this consummation which her father devoutly wished would never take place.

Another of this extraordinary couple's delights was to take little trips alone together to most of the European capitals. Sandcross's business allowed him to travel as much as he liked; he had but to-take the place of his representatives. By this means, he increased his gains and enjoyed his daughter more freely.

The rich Englishman and the young and lovely woman who was generally taken for his wife or mistress, had many strange little adventures together, seeing peculiar sights, as they always sought for some glorious indecency in all the capitals they visited. In Sweden and Norway, they had women to attend to them in their bath; in Russia, men assisted during their ablutions; and at Ostend, one day, on repairing to a bath-house, they were shown by the sedate proprietor into a double bathroom.

It must not be thought that Sandcross ever allowed any stranger to touch his daughter. He did not debauch her to that extent, nor did her insatiable curiosity for all the sights in the peep-show of sexual horrors induce her to forget her allegiance to her papa. She was an onlooker. She liked to see, but not to touch or be touched. We need not say more. The following instances will suffice to show our meaning.

Her father had been told that in Paris were miserable prostitutes of the lowest class, too old and ugly, or if young, too shabby, to show themselves in the light of day, and who eked out a precarious living by masturbating passers-by in the darkest recesses of the public parks and gardens. Fanny wanted to see these off-scourings of feminality, and her papa allowed her to view most smutty scenes.

There was a young creature dressed in bicycle costume, who with an old rusty machine, used to haunt the benches of the Bois de Boulogne. When in a lonely bypath, she espied a man on foot or on horseback, she would rise from her seat and open her bloomers in front showing the gaping, worn mystery of her shop-soiled sex. If this simple enticement succeeded, the sylvan siren drew her prey into the bushes and there offered him the contents of her breeches or the succour of her hands and mouth for a franc or two. She satisfied horsemen by standing on a bench or broad post, using her lips and mouth to sate their spending appetite, without it being necessary for them to dismount. Fanny saw her at work, and opened her baby eyes with her look of simplicity and candour, while the slow moisture of lickerish lewd desire on her glorious lips betrayed the secret concealed by her skirts, as she glanced at her father.

Their blood heated to boiling point, they would return to their taxi, stationed some little distance off, and Fanny would study the old legend of Saint George and the dragon, on pa's lap, greedily engulphing to the pommel the beloved sword that taught her mother the science of cut and thrust years ago, and which now urged on the daughter to her molten crisis of incest, assisted by the shaking of the hired vehicle.

Fanny would then sink down by Sandcross's side, happy and glutted, with her hand on the sign of virility. A black silk handkerchief was spread like an apron over the knees of the author of her being, and his private parts fully at liberty, his daughter could slip her hand underneath the dark foulard, and caress them as she chose while the wheels of their car rolled round. This was especially useful when going to the theatre or returning. Before reaching home, after the play they frequently indulged in complete connection in their roomy auto.

One cold November evening, at dusk, they strolled together through the Champs Elysees gardens, and Fanny dropping a thick, double veil, of the kind known in the trade as tulle adultere, Sandcross interviewed a ragged young girl who was anxiously awaiting customers under the greenwood trees. A thick, rimy mist was falling, but the enterprising strumpet, in return for a trifle of silver, declared that she did not despair of getting enough to pay for her dinner and the morrow's keep in the course of an hour or so.

There are, it appears, a number of men who enjoy naught but the manipulation of female fingers in the open air. They stand up, and the woman plunges her hand into their trousers in front, or through an unstitched or cut pocket, according as these misguided voluptuaries of the highways have arranged. Some cast their seed upon the ground, like Onan of old, others preferring to ejaculate inside their garments. They like to walk away, feeling themselves bedewed with their own semen. Others only look at these girls busy in the dark. The wretched females know this well, and are not surprised when masturbating a client to see another ghostly masculine form looming up in the gloaming The male who is being operated may start, dismayed, and lose all the benefits of cheap al fresco massage, but the nymph of the Paphian groves of Paris, with her horny, but willing palm, reassures her idiot, telling him not to be alarmed but to hurry up and discharge, as the new arrival has only come to look on.

Sandcross and Fanny became lookers-on for once, and the father, always eager to please his daughter in her voyage round the world of venedy, told one of the open air, fingering females to accost the first passer-by and offer to masturbate him for nothing. Sandcross would treat the wayfarer to pastoral pleasure if allowed to look on with “his wife”. Two or three men were induced to expose their persons, and the peripatetic harlot, delighted at the windfall, proved that she could play upon this pipe, it being as easy as lying down. While the men were being shaken and rubbed past the gates of paradise, Sandcross and Fanny stood by and compared proportions and form. Next, sodomitical stories set the blood of Miss Sandcross on fire, and father and daughter watched the beardless boys of the unemployed stamp hanging about urinals offering their services to elderly, well-dressed men. Sandcross found out a furnished hotel, kept by a retired catamite, now too old to serve the inverted tastes of his patrons. He had invested his savings earned by the sweat of his brows in a comfortable little lodging-house, frequented by old friends and new acquaintances. Fanny and her father paid a visit there, and the jovial landlord at their request sent round the corner for a young passive pederast, who was celebrated for his abnormal proportions in one direction, and the narrowness of his… ideas, in another. The young knight of the powder puff appeared rouged, with hair dyed like that of a woman, wearing a loose, lay-down collar with a crushed strawberry cravat, and a short, tight-fitting, single-breasted jacket that enhanced the shape of his undulating crupper. Fanny thought she would have died of suppressed laughter when the grotesque hermaphrodite of the Boulevards walked with a wriggle of his breadwinner into the room and going straight up to Mr. Sandcross thrust his tongue into her father's mouth by way of polite salutation. The incestuous pair amused themselves by stripping and spanking him, and another boy being procured, they looked on while a pederastic duo was played from end to end for their benefit, not a note or variation being slurred over. When the lads were dismissed, Sandcross threw himself on willing Fanny and they fully satisfied themselves.

Such scenes were repeated for their benefit in many parts of France and other countries, Fanny never tiring. The nervis of Marseilles, the boatmen on the lakes of Northern- Italy, the gondoliers of Venice, the ragazzi of Rome, arid naked Neapolitans, all served to interest fantastic Fanny, the buxom queen of incest.

She increased in stature, and filled out, thriving on the rich libations of in-breeding, until she attained the massive, though proportionate curves of the Grecian Venus. Her existence was an ideal one. She loved but one man on earth. He returned her affection and was entirely faithful to her, thinking no more of any other female, and showering gifts on his daughter-concubine.

A cloud now passed over the happy home of Sandcross. His wife fell ill. Continuous gastronomical excesses, and a growing disinclination to put her foot to the ground or even go outside the house, had reduced Fanny's mother to the rank of an obese invalid. She developed rheumatic gout, and after several long illnesses and relapses, devotedly attended and nursed by her husband and daughter, it was discovered that her heart was touched and great care was therefore necessary.

Fanny was getting near the age of twenty, when the doctors gave their verdict, Mrs. Sandcross being convalescent after a more than usually painful crisis of her malady. She was ordered change of air; a season in her native country was the thing for her. So she went by easy stages to Buxton to spend the month of August and part of September in a hydropathic establishment. Fanny and her father accompanied her. All three were greatly fatigued; the sick woman and her two faithful nurses. Miss Sandcross was invited to stop with some friends at Pulborough in Sussex; and papa was forced to return to business in Paris. At that moment, he could not leave the capital for more than forty-eight hours at a time.

Papa and his Fan were greatly grieved at this their first separation, but they both needed rest and a change after the sleepless nights of anxious watching passed in turns by the bedside of the suffering mother.

About the middle of September, mamma was much better in health, though still rather weak, and she was allowed to depart from the sanatorium. Fanny's visit had come to an end and she was dying to be clasped to her father's arms once more. The arcadian pleasures of honest English homes soon palled upon her, and she found the nights ridiculously long, as she tossed on her solitary spring mattress in the best guest room. She was courted and adulated by the finest young men one could wish to set eyes upon, gentlemen athletes, skilled in all sports and gentle as sucking-doves with the fair sex, but none of those who worshipped at the shrine of her beauty or fell stricken to the heart by the magic of her violet, marvelling orbs, made the slightest impression. She would have given all the picked lives at Pulborough and its vicinity for one, soft, lingering kiss from the parental lips. She loved her father deeply, truly, loyally.

Sandcross had arranged to go to England to fetch his wife and daughter, returning to France by way of Dieppe, meeting Fanny at Lewes as she left the Pulborough people, and proceeding to Newhaven with her, where father and daughter would meet Mrs. Sandcross returning from Buxton, and thus all three could embark and cross the Channel together.

All the dates were carefully arranged by Mr. Sandcross, and he had a motive in being so punctilious. He had not seen Fanny for nearly two months, and as he was getting on in years, full of business cares, and wary now of the wiles of professional prostituted beauties, we may surmise that he had been faithful to his own girl as he called her. He was burning for a quiet night with her, and had arranged things splendidly as he thought.

Mamma, of course, knew the day on which her husband would meet their daughter at Lewes, lunch with her there, and bring her on to Newhaven, but what she could not divine was that Fanny had arranged to leave Pulborough on the eve of the day notified to her mother, so as to get a night with her papa in the same bed, and then go on to Newhaven next morning. Sandcross was also to leave Paris twelve hours before the time stated to his wife. His good lady, rather feeble after her severe bout of illness, obliged to take minute doses of digitalis, thought it would be better to start from Buxton a day before the time fixed by her husband and sleep at Lewes. She really did not feel equal to going right through to Paris. It would be a nice little surprise, too, for Sandcross and Fanny when they met to have lunch, to find mama at Lewes having preceded them, instead of waiting their arrival at Newhaven.

The fun of her pleasant little trick sustained the poor lady on her journey, albeit she was but the shadow of her former self, walking and breathing with difficulty. She reached Lewes safely shortly after sunset and arrived at the specified hotel.

She asked for a room, and telling her name, explained how being unaccompanied, she wished to dine and sleep and meet her husband and daughter the next day. The reply came readily that Mr. Sandcross had just been in, had engaged the big room on the first floor for himself and lady, and had stepped out again.

Mrs. Sandcross, still really very ill, could not worry her enfeebled brain about this strange coincidence, and jumped at the muddled conclusion that somehow or the other she had misunderstood her husband's letter, which was in her reticule, and he was no doubt expecting her.

She replied with gasping utterances-it was strange now how the least excitement made her pant and tremble-that she was the lady in question, and would go up to her husband's room.

Once in the comfortable single-bedded, clean, old-fashioned chamber, she was glad to get off her hat and jacket and sit down to rest. There was a nice, antique, padded chair with big arms behind a light screen near the fireplace. She would recline there and have a nap until her good hubby returned. How she longed to see him and her handsome, devoted daughter! They were so good to her, so kind; such splendid nurses. The poor lady dropped a tear or two, partly out of pity for her own weakened, suffering self, and also for joy at being once more with the only two persons she loved. Really, she was very low and nervous. Doctors nowadays were great faddists. Fancy!-nothing but milk to live on for two months! No wonder she was all to pieces and starting at every sound. Wait until she got back to Paris. She would soon get her strength up with Normandy beef, grand fat fowls and fine old Bordeaux, not forgetting aged vintage Champagne. It was time for another little sip of that nasty digitalis stuff, and she must read- hubby's letter-dear Oliver!-silly mistake-Sandcross always so particular too-doctors softening her brain- no more milk-so tired-my reticule. And Mrs. Sand-cross dozed peacefully in her comfortable armchair.

It was now dusk and the low-ceilinged room was full of deep shadow when Mr. Sandcross, escorting Fanny whom he had fetched at the railway station, came gently into the bedchamber.

The door was no sooner closed and locked than by a mutual impulse, they fell into each other's arms, upstanding, and their mouths met in a kiss of long pent-up desire, tongues intertwining, lips clipping lips, and hands clasped, until Sandcross threw his arms round her, moulding her buttocks with one hand while he pressed her close to him with the other so as to feel her perfect bust crushed and throbbing against his breast. They ceased for want of breath and lost no words in idle talk. Fanny left his clasp, took off her hat, and throwing her slight bolero behind her, began feverishly unhooking her bodice. Sandcross, congested, his outstretched hands trembling, stepped towards her. Fanny waved him off.

“Undress, pa darling! We shall just have time before dinner. Make haste, I'm longing for you much more than you are for me!”

With a merry smile of denial, Sandcross tore off all the armour of civilisation, but despite his celerity, Fanny was naked, save natty nutbrown shoes and stockings, long before he had struggled out of laced boots and spun silk drawers.

He caught her again in his arms, drunk with delight as he once more felt her naked, tightly stretched, smooth skin against his sturdy, hairy body. The enamoured father would have dragged her to the bed, but she resisted.

“It will look so funny in this quaint hostelry if we go to bed before dinner. The sofa will suit, daddy love. I want to see you all over, and then you'll have to slap my bottom for being such a naughty little devil of a daughter as to play with the big thing I see sticking out from between my father's thighs. Oh! if it hadn't been for that great truncheon, I should never have seen the light of day, and also should never have had its whole length inside my body; in my hands; in my mouth- everywhere!-all over me!”

He was seated on the sofa, stark naked, and she, entirely nude too, was squatting between his open thighs admiring the gigantic, erect priapus she was so fond of. She caressed it with her fingers.

“Isn't it big? And impatient too? I can feel it throbbing in my hand. It feels for all the world like some huge, soft, warm dormouse that I might have made a prisoner. How nice you smell! What a time it is since I've enjoyed your own special perfume.” She ceased stroking his standard in order to inhale the odour of her own fingers which she pressed rapturously to her nose.

“Come now, papa,” said Fanny, excitedly, jumping up, “I've been a bad girl and have got so wicked.” She took his hand and placed it on her. “You must punish me for that and drive all these naughty thoughts out of my head!”

She pulled him gaily off the sofa and threw herself upon it on her ivory belly.

Papa stood up over her, entranced with the sight of her sloping shoulders, arched loins and the immense expanse of her rotund buttocks, as white as driven snow and as elastic as a freshly-inflated balloon. He slapped quickly and smartly with deft, stinging, spanking blows due to long practice.

“Oh, it's beautiful! You make me feel so exquisitely naughty! Harder, pa, dear! Quicker, kill me! Strike more with the tip of your fingers! Oh! oh! No-no more! It's awful now! Not so fast! Am I red? Ah! That was too bad! I'm sure the skin is broken! Don't! Oh, don't, I tell you!”

She writhed and twisted, pressing one arm to her face, and the other was bent behind her, palm upwards, in the small of her back. Papa had never ceased cruelly beating her with his hands, first one, then the other, and finally both posteriors at once, until they were black and blue, irregularly studded with small speckled wounds, whence issued tiny drops of blood as big as pin-heads.

This was quite enough for brazen Fanny, who sprang up and threw herself on her back, placing her clasped hands about her papa's neck, and pulling him down to her. He fell heavily upon her. She opened her legs.

“Make haste, my own papa! Your daughter is dying for her father's hard cruel thing that tore her to pieces when she was seventeen! Oh, put it in! Quick! Give me all of it! Don't keep me waiting! Don't tease me so, pups!”

He was so excited and trembled so much with lust and long abstention from the pleasures of the flesh that he bungled.

“There-silly pa! You've forgotten how to do it! Was that how you managed with mamma? It's a wonder you ever got her in the family way at all then? Isn't it- oh!-how beautiful! Push! Now! There! Oh, don't come yet! Let me-spend-first! I'm spe-e-ending! Oh! oh! Stop, pa!”

He remained still, admiring her form, lifting himself up a little way, pressing her large breasts.

“Now, go on again Gently at first! So! Oh, papa! I'm your wife! Enjoy your wife, Oliver darling, and make her see the angels!”

“You're not my wife, Fanny child; you're my daughter, my own offspring, sprung from your old daddy's loins nearly nineteen years ago! Oh! oh! I can't help it! I must spend now!”

“I'm spending! Oh, papa-husband! Spend with me -now! Father, make me a baby! Not so hard, you'll spoil your little wifie!”

“Oh, Fanny! I'm spending! Oh, darling It's-too- much. Ugh There There! It burns me!”

He dropped flat on her body, stifling her cries with the pressure of his hot mouth, as they both spent together.

All was still. The room was quite quiet. No sound could be heard but Fanny's sighs of pleasure, growing gradually weaker and weaker, and her father's stertorous breathing as he lay heavily upon her, his eyes closed in the oblivious repose of satisfied lust.

“Well, Fan, how did you run on just now! What would your ma say if she could have heard you?”

A slight noise resounded through the room, near the fireplace, in a corner-it seemed to Sandcross who started and turned towards the screen. Fanny sat up and her glance followed that of her father.

The flimsy barrier fell, and Fanny's mother stood stiffly erect. In one hand she held her little bottle and reticule; the other was stretched out towards her naked husband and daughter. Although the room was nearly dark, Mrs. Sandcross's white face and staring blue eyes, showing a vast and terrifying dilatation like unto mother-o'-pearl round the pupils, gleamed out against the blackness of the shadows as if the features were illumined from within, and lighted up the space immediately surrounding her mask of agony.

“You vile wretches” she gasped out, in hoarse tones-almost like those of a man. “Curse you both! May you- I-I-oh!”

A long, low, painful sigh came from the innermost depths of her panting breast, and she dropped back in the armchair. Her eyes closed peacefully. All anger left her face. She was still, reposing, as it appeared, after the great shock.

“Oh, pa! She's fainted,” whispered the nude daughter, catching up her petticoat, by an automatic movement of long-forgotten pudicity in the presence of her mother.

Sandcross stepped forward, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder, and gazing intently into her face. All at once, he started back.

“No, Fanny. She's dead!”

The verdict was heart failure. The joyous emotion of meeting a beloved husband and dutiful daughter when still weak from prolonged illness had been too much for her. All her lady friends envied her painless, sudden, happy death in the arms of the loved ones to whom she had just been reunited.

Fanny and her father are perfectly and unreservedly happy. They never leave each other. If you are fond of visiting Parisian playhouses, on subscribers' nights, or on the second or third performance of a new piece, you cannot forego having the beautiful Miss Sandcross pointed out to you.

You will know her by the wondering infantile simplicity in the candid glance of her violet eyes. She wears a magnificent ruby and diamond brooch, in which is set a most artistic little miniature of her doting father, whom you will notice always seated behind her in the private box, and supping with her afterwards.