Alice Marlowe

Chapter One-3

Meanwhile, Charlotte had more to recount of the dances she attended. The same boy was there the next time and she danced with him, again managing to get close, this time shamelessly rubbing herself against him. He manoeuvred her towards some French windows and, looking back to see if they were observed, steered her out into the garden. Charlotte was thrilled. He walked her down a path and into some bushes. Then he held her close and kissed her.

“What was it like, kissing?” Alice said. “Tell me exactly.”

“His mouth was warm and a bit wet,” Charlotte said. “But it felt soft. And then I felt his tongue come out and it pushed between my lips and I let it come into my mouth.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Alice. “That sounds lovely. Show me what he did, exactly.”

Charlotte pressed her mouth against Alice’s, then pushed out her tongue. Alice parted her lips and sucked Charlotte’s tongue into her mouth. The two girls remained locked together for what seemed like an age, exploring the delicious sensuality of lips and mouths. At last Alice pulled away. “And what then?”

“I was pushing myself up against him,” Charlotte said. “And I could feel it, very hard and big, against my tummy. Well, lower down actually.”

“So what did he do?” Alice asked breathlessly.

“I asked him if I could see it,” Charlotte said with a giggle.

“You never did!” Alice said. “What a wicked girl.”

“So he reached down and sort of fiddled with his trousers. It was quite dark so I couldn’t see much, but he grabbed my hand and put it down there and I felt him. I put my hand round it and it was warm, almost hot. And very hard, yet soft at the same time.”

“So how big was it?”

Charlotte made a gesture with her hands. “I would say about six inches long. And quite thick,” Charlotte said.

“My goodness,” Alice said. She tried to imagine such a thing going inside her. Surely there was no room. “So what then?”

“Unfortunately we heard someone coming so he put it away.”

“Oh,” said Alice. “Pity.”

“But he said next time I could play with it. He would show me what to do to make all the stuff come out.”

“The sperm?”

“The semen,” said Charlotte confidently. “They get more and more excited and then it all spurts out. That’s what makes babies.”

Alice thought about this. The idea of babies did not appeal. But the thought of handling such a thing as a c**k, especially seeing it spurt, was unbelievably exciting.

“And he said that he would let me do that to him, touch him like that, and make the semen come out, but I would have to let him have a feel too.”

“What sort of a feel?” Alice asked.

“He said he wanted to feel up under my skirt,” Charlotte replied.

“Will you let him?” Alice said, eyes wide.

“Maybe,” Charlotte said, relishing the thought of the power she had over this boy. She had felt how very much he desired her, how much he wanted to get her somewhere private where he could explore her body. Over the next few days Alice m*********d relentlessly thinking of what Charlotte had told her.

Charlotte produced another book after Alice had consumed Walter’s exploits. Whereas Walter appeared to be a recent work, this second book, entitled Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, had been published in the middle of the previous century. It detailed the s****l adventures of a spirited and adventurous girl named Fanny Hill. In its pages Alice was delighted to find a detailed description of Fanny’s involvement in a spanking session in which a birch was used. Alice had fantasies of spanking and often imagined herself on her knees, with skirts lifted, while she was chastised, either by a strict schoolmistress, or preferably by a man, an implacable, even cruel disciplinarian. But when she had tried to spank herself, using a belt and then a wooden spoon from the kitchen, she found the exercise futile. She could not hit herself hard enough to induce any desire, and realised that until she could find someone to administer a spanking, she was doomed to be frustrated in that particular activity. It seemed that it wasn’t entirely a matter of the pain induced, but of feeling under another’s control. She wanted to feel someone’s power over her, using her for his pleasure.

At least Fanny’s account gave her food for thought. She read one passage over several times:

“All my back parts, naked half way up, were now fully at his mercy: and first, he stood at a convenient distance, delighting himself with a gloating survey of the attitude I lay in, and of all the secret stores I thus exposed to him in fair display. Then, springing eagerly towards me, he covered all those naked parts with a fond profusion of kisses; and now, taking hold of the rod, rather wantoned with me, in gentle inflictions on those tender trembling masses of my flesh behind, than in any way hurt them, till by degrees, he began to tingle them with smarter lashes, so as to provoke a red colour into them, which I knew, as well by the flagrant glow I felt there, as by his telling me, they now emulated the native roses of my other cheeks. When he had thus amused himself with admiring, and toying with them, he went on to strike harder, and harder, so that I needed all my patience not to cry out, or complain at least. At last, he twigged me so smartly as to fetch blood in more than one lash: at sight of which he flung down the rod, flew to me, kissed away the starting drops, and sucking the wounds eased a good deal of my pain. But now raising me on my knees, and making me kneel with them straddling wide, that tender part of me, naturally the province of pleasure, not of pain, came in for its share of suffering: for now, eyeing it wistfully, he directed the rod so that the sharp ends of the twigs lighted there, so sensibly, that I could not help wincing, and writhing my limbs with smart; so that my contortions of body must necessarily throw it into infinite variety of postures and points of view, fit to feast the luxury of the eye. But still I bore every thing without crying out: when presently giving me another pause, he rushed, as it were, on that part whose lips, and round about, had felt this cruelty, and by way of reparation, glued his own to them; then he opened, shut, squeezed them, plucked softly the overgrowing moss, and all this in a style of wild passionate rapture and enthusiasm, that expressed excess of pleasure; till betaking himself to the rod again, encouraged by my passiveness, and infuriated with this strange taste of delight, he made my poor posteriors pay for the ungovernableness of it; for now showing them no quarter, the traitor cut me so, that I wanted but little of fainting away, when he gave over.”

Each time she read, Alice’s hand crept up under her skirt and inside her drawers, deliciously fondling between her legs, teasing the lips of her cunt, which soon grew wet, then sliding a finger inside herself, before rubbing against her swollen nub. At the conclusion she would bring herself to orgasm, a climax of such intensity that it left her breathless. Yet before too long she would, if opportunity allowed, pick up the book again and recommence reading, with a similar conclusion.

Alice was somewhat disappointed when reading further that the birching did not, in Fanny’s account, lead immediately to s****l pleasure, even though it had involved the servicing of a man. But when she read on, Alice found that the pain of birching did indeed lead to excitement on Fanny’s part. It was just that this was delayed; only after an interval did she conceive a desire for the man to use her:

“But scarce was supper well over, before a change so incredible was wrought in me, such violent, yet pleasingly irksome sensations took possession of me that I scarce knew how to contain myself; the smart of the lashes was now converted into such a prickly heat, such fiery tinglings, as made me sigh, squeeze my thighs together, shift and wriggle about my seat, with a furious restlessness; whilst these itching ardours, thus excited in those parts on which the storm of discipline had principally fallen, detached legions of burning, subtile, stimulating spirits, to their opposite spot and centre of assemblage, where their titillation raged so furiously, that I was even stinging with them.”

Once aware of the intensity of her desire, her companion put Fanny on the floor, opened her legs, pulling them upwards and thrusting his c**k into her, f*****g her with great enthusiasm until she was satisfied. So she, Alice, was not the only woman who had ever felt the heady excitement of mingled pain and pleasure. It was some comfort.

Unfortunately, her enjoyment of Fanny’s adventures was to be cut short in the most disastrous manner. One afternoon she was in her room, perusing the volume while sitting in an armchair. She had put one leg over an arm of the chair and hitched her skirt so that she could slip her hand underneath. She thought her father to be in the church, and that she was safe, and so had not locked the door. Suddenly it flew open and her father strode into the room. He looked surprised.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Confused, Alice tried to hide the book while at the same time removing her hand from under her skirt. But a glance at her face was enough for him to be suspicious; guilt was written all over it.

“I – I was sitting thinking,” she said, her face blushing bright red.

“It looks like you are reading a book,” he said. “Give it to me.”

“No, father, it is nothing. Really,” she said.

“Give it to me!” her father thundered.

A feeling of dread came over her. She knew she had no choice but to hand him the book. He glanced at it, then looked at her. “What filth is this?” he shouted. “How dare you read such disgusting things. Have you no shame?”

Alice was silent. What could she say that would make a difference?

“You will stay in your room until I decide what to do with you,” her father said, still holding the book. He turned and left the room. Alice spent a miserable couple of hours walking around her room, looking out of the window, anything to pass the time. At last her father returned. He was carrying a short wooden cane, something she had never seen before. Certainly he had never used such a thing on her.

“You must be punished,” her father said. “But first you will tell me where you got that obscene book.”

“I cannot do that, father,” Alice said. Whatever happened, she would not betray her friend.

“Then the punishment will be worse,” her father said. “Though your intransigence is in vain. There is a name written at the front of the book. It is the name of Charlotte’s father.”

Alice’s heart fell. So the shame would not be hers alone. Would Charlotte too be punished?

“Hold out your hand,” her father said sternly.

Alice looked at him. Surely he did not intend to strike her?

“I am waiting,” her father said. His face was dark with anger. Fearfully, Alice stretched out her hand, the right one, palm upwards.

“Do not move,” her father said. He raised the cane and brought it down sharply, striking her full across the palm. The cane stung badly. Alice cried out and without thinking rubbed her hand.

“I said keep still,” her father shouted. He seemed almost out of control in his rage. She was frightened to provoke him further. She put out her hand again. The second stroke hurt even more than the first. By some effort of will Alice managed to keep her hand extended while her father completed a total of six strokes. Then she held her hand against her breast. The pain was acute, biting, stinging. There was no pleasure in it; Alice felt only shame and anger at the assault. She tried to hold back the tears; she wanted not to give him that satisfaction, but one or two trickled down her cheeks.