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DESCRIPTION: On a great rural estate, the idyllic reunion of two school roommates is interrupted when Lady Anna begins to have strange, physically-exhausting dreams about their new neighbour, a mysterious nobleman who is never seen during daylight hours. A vampire has come to High Coulston, and it is up to Suzanne Willis, and three valiant men, to find and destroy him before he can turn her beautiful lover into a demon like himself. EXCERPT: I hesitate to write what follows. It seems too fantastical, too outré, too strange, to have really happened, though I have the evidence before me in the glass as I write. The room was still dimly lit by the bedside lamps. It seemed hazy, as if a dank fog had somehow penetrated into the room. Or perhaps smoky, though there was no smell of smoke. Then, very slowly, I noticed the haze taking form. Indistinct at first, it slowly formed into a face, hovering over the bed, looking down on me. I should have felt very conscious of my nudity, yet somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Rather than try to cover myself, an act almost instinctual in any well brought up young woman, I rolled onto my back, my arms flung wide, my legs well apart, as if I were showing off the most intimate parts of me to the hovering face. I am dreaming, I thought. My intimacy with Suzanne has conceived a somnolent fantasy, in which our new neighbour seems to have been included. For it was Lord Ravensbrook’s face which was floating above me, smiling benignly, making me ache with carnal desire. The mist seemed to coalesce at the foot of the bed. In my dream, it seemed as if the marquess himself was standing there, quite naked, his rampant manhood thrust out before him. He climbed upon the bed. I drew up my legs, spread my knees well apart, as he lowered himself above me. His massive member pressed at the portal of my quim, insisting it be allowed to enter. I knew this was wrong, but it was a dream, and dreams are to be enjoyed in the moment, and agonised over only in the light of day. The dreaming ‘me’ simply pulled her legs up higher and wrapped them around his back, pulling that magnificent organ deep into her cunt. As he began to thrust, I could feel the pleasure radiating up from within. My body craved the attention. His member was so big that it was almost painful as he rogered me, yet I cared not at all. In my dream, pain was not something to be dreaded, but to be embraced. His lips pressed against mine. We exchanged deep, passionate kisses. Dreamily, I was aware of my loving Suzanne lying on her side, facing me, her head propped up on her hand, watching me with a strange, interested expression. So, she was in my dream as well, I thought. Even more lovely. Perhaps she would join in the fun? Lord Ravensbrook’s kisses covered my face. His lips brushed the sensitive skin of my throat. I felt a slight twinge where his mouth covered my neck, but any such sensation was overwhelmed as his giant member began to pulse, spewing what seemed like gallons of spunk into my fertile womb. And then he was gone. One moment he was there, seemingly corporeal, and the next that strange mist again filled the room, only to somehow be sucked out the open window and vanish. When I awakened in the morning, I found Suzanne studying me curiously. ‘You must have some very strange, very wonderful dreams,’ she said.
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by Lauren Milfinger
Published by Lot’s Cave
Lust for Blood, © 2018, by Lauren Milfinger
Cover by Lauren Milfinger
All Rights Reserved
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
Lust for Blood
Wednesday, 3rd July— So much has happened, and yet we have only just finished our late breakfast. Suzanne Willis, my good friend from school, has come to visit. She will be staying with us for three weeks, and it is so wonderful to be able to catch up on all that has passed since we were graduated and went out into the world.
To think, it has been all of three years since we left school. My birthday was last week, so now I’m an old woman of twenty-two years, whilst Suzanne is still but twenty-one, and will remain so for five more months.
I had been so looking forward to seeing her again. I was awake a few minutes past one o’clock this morning. Jackson had Thunderer hitched to the Victoria when I came out through the kitchen door, precisely at two o’clock. We had made this journey enough times to know how long it would take, but as this time the journey would be made in the middle of the night, we had allowed an extra half hour. Suzanne’s train was scheduled to arrive at half three. Unless there was an unforeseen problem, we should be at the station twenty minutes before that. As Jackson kept the carriages in pristine condition, and Thunderer was a most reliable coach horse, I anticipated no problems.
Naturally, with a journey of several miles over dark country roads, both Jackson and I were prepared for emergencies. I had my little revolver in my bag, and Jackson would have his bulldog tucked away in a pocket. There had been no reports of highwaymen in this region for many years, yet we still took precautions.
We arrived at the station at 3:12, according to Jackson’s watch. He stayed with the horse and carriage, whilst I walked through the waiting room and out onto the platform. There were several benches under the overhanging roof, and I seated myself on one of them.
An elderly couple was seated on one of the other benches. They had a large trunk and two big cases with them, so I presumed they would be boarding the train, and were not waiting for someone to get off.
The train puffed into the station two minutes behind schedule, according to the platform clock. The elderly couple, with the help of a porter, immediately set about getting their things loaded into the baggage waggon.
I hurried along the platform to where the first-class carriages had stopped. Only three compartment doors opened, and I saw Suzanne descend from the centre door, carrying a small bag. A porter, carrying two more, significantly larger bags, followed her as she hurried up the platform.
We embraced, in a properly subdued and decorous manner, with the usual quick pecks to the cheek, and I led Suzanne and the porter through the station to the waiting Victoria.
Jackson secured Suzanne’s bags, then helped each of us up into the open coach. As we were settling into the seat, Jackson mounted the box seat, took the reins, and shook them to send Thunderer trotting away. We would be back to Muntglare about half four.
‘This is so exciting,’ Suzanne commented, when we were on our way.
‘You must be exhausted,’ I said. ‘Travelling all that distance, and in the middle of the night, too.’
She shook her pretty head, smiling sweetly. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I was asleep for much of the journey. I imagine you are the one who will be in need of rest.’
‘A few hours of sleep would do nicely,’ I admitted.
‘Well, dear Anna,’ she said, ‘while I’m not too tired, I suppose I could do with a bit more rest as well.’ She frowned. ‘Your brother won’t think it improper, will he, if we sleep late this morning?’
I found myself laughing gaily. ‘There is very little,’ I said, that Edwin thinks is improper. ‘As for sleeping late, well, he does that himself rather more often than not.’
‘Wonderful. Is he a proper gentleman, dear Anna? Of course, I know he’s an earl, but I’ve met more than a few earls who were right pigs if you gave them the slightest opportunity.’
‘Fear not. Edwin is quite the most proper sort you’d ever wish to meet.’
‘Yet there’s little he thinks is improper? Now you confuse me.’
‘I mean, dear, that he’s a proper gentleman. You need have no fears for your virtue in his house.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. ‘Unless you wish to indulge your sensuality, that is.’
‘You mean, he would corrupt me, but only if I wished it?’
We drove along in silence for a while. The carbide lamps threw their twin circles of light only a few feet in front of the carriage, so Jackson was urging Thunderer along in a slow trot. I’ve been told horses see better in the dark than people. I have no idea if this is true.
Suzanne was nodding off as we drove. I supposed her story of sleeping in the railway carriage was somewhat exaggerated. I had no idea whether she’d had the compartment to herself, or if there were others riding in it. If she were not alone, I suspect she might have dozed, but I doubt she’d allow herself to truly sleep.
She came to herself as the carriage turned from the dirt lane onto the brick-paved drive leading up to the New Lodge. One of the lights glared briefly across the old bronze plaque with the name of the estate, Muntglare.
‘I have always wondered about that name,’ Suzanne said. ‘Where does it come from, “Muntglare?”’
‘An English corruption of a much older French name, I fear,’ I replied. ‘I’m told it was originally “Mont Gloire,” but that over many years it was changed to its current form. Parts of the old house date back to just after the Conquest.’
‘Oh, how interesting. Will we be staying in that part of the house?’
‘Not at all. The old house is unused to-day. We live in the New Lodge, which was built by my father in 1879, so, you see, it’s all quite up to date. Even we are older than the house.’
‘The house is only sixteen-years-old? I’m a little disappointed. I was expecting something ancient looking.’
The coach rattled into the kitchen yard. I don’t believe Suzanne was too disappointed. While the New Lodge was, of course, quite literally still new, the architect had designed it to mimic a much older structure. It was built in the Romanesque style, designed by an American my father had imported, who seemed to have a flair for that sort of thing. A great pile of stone and brick, complete with rounded towers, leaded-glass windows, and a steeply pitched slate roof punctured by numerous small gables and dormers, only the bottom row of which could conveniently be seen through from the attic. Despite being new, and filled with all the latest conveniences, it managed to look quite ancient.
My personal maid, O’Leary, collected Suzanne’s bags and took them up to my room. I had naturally decided to have her stay with me during her week here. We had shared a room a school. It seemed only natural to do the same whilst she was visiting. It would allow us to chatter and gossip as we fell asleep. It might, I hoped, allow for other things as well.
My room was dark as we followed O’Leary inside. I struck a match and lit the two gas sconces that flanked the door. O’Leary placed Suzanne’s bags on a chest and set to work unpacking them and transferring the contents to the bottom two drawers of my tall chest.
‘These dresses will need ironing, mum,’ she commented. ‘I’ll take them now and have them looking lovely before breakfast.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Suzanne replied.
While O’Leary was putting away Suzanne’s things, I had lit the paraffin lamps on the small tables on either side of the bed. These were the latest, tubular wick, central draught lamps, which give quite a bright light if adjusted properly. I set them to burn quite low, so that there would be enough light in the room to see after the gas sconces were turned off, but not so much that the glare would keep us awake.
O’Leary had soon finished her duties, collected the wrinkled dresses, and departed. Being well trained, I knew she would not return until I rang for her after we awakened. I suppose one of the advantages of being a lady’s maid is that she may sleep a bit later than the other servants, for her sole concern is my welfare.
‘When I see the number of servants you have,’ Suzanne said, ‘I must admit I feel a bit envious. We have only a couple in our home, and they are rather elderly. I’m afraid my mother and I do more than our share of the domestic chores. But, of course, we are not nearly so wealthy as your family, living on the annuity my father established for us before he died. £350 a year is certainly adequate for two women, but it doesn’t allow for a large staff. Not in London.’
‘Well, my dear, we do have a bit more than that, what with rents, the stables, and my brother’s interests in the City, but somehow I rather envy your situation. Country life can be deadly boring at times. There is very little that happens here, even when you’re the sister of the Earl of Muntglare. There are so few eligible gentlemen in this region.’ Eligible gentlemen? Did I care about that shortage? I rather thought that I did not.
Suzanne removed her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. She was wearing a white, high-necked shirtwaist under it. Quite a practical choice, I thought. My dress buttoned up the back, so I needed the help of a maid to get in or out of it. Suzanne’s shirtwaist buttoned in the front. She had it off, and had laid it across the same chair, in no time at all. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked rather fetching in her corset and skirt.
‘Could you help me with this dress?’ I asked, turning my back towards her.
‘Of course.’ She stepped close and began to undo the buttons. There seemed to be a ridiculous number of them to undo, as there always were, but at last they were all undone and I was able to slip out of the bodice.
Our skirts didn’t require any help. Both of us could reach those buttons, and we soon found ourselves standing there in corset, shift, stockings, and boots. Boots and stocking went next, then corsets. Suzanne, ever practical wore a front-lace style she could put on and remove herself. Mine, like my dress, was laced up the back and required assistance. Still, with a little help from Suzanne, it was removed.
I walked over to the door and shut off the gas to the sconces. The low paraffin flames in the bedside lamps cast only a dim glow over the room.
‘Time for some rest,’ I said, pulling back the counterpane and sheets.
Suzanne climbed into bed with me. We had frequently slept together in school, particularly on cold nights, when the fire in the hearth only just managed to keep the chill at bay. The bed in my room is, naturally, a good bit larger than the narrow cots we’d had at school. Roomy enough for two to sleep there without bumping into each other.
As we settled in, Suzanne rolled over and draped an arm across me. ‘Do you remember the things we used to do on those cold nights at school?’ she asked, giggling.
‘I do, indeed,’ I replied.
‘I wondered if you did,’ she went on. ‘This is a big house, and I am sure you have an empty bedroom or two for guests, yet instead you suggest sharing your room and bed with me.’
‘I like having company,’ I explained. Suzanne’s hand was resting on my breast. That brought back pleasant memories of those cold nights at school. Sharing body warmth. Holding each other close, our hands so comforting, bare flesh against bare flesh.
‘So do I,’ she whispered. ‘When it’s you.’
She leaned over me, her lips brushing mine, lingering, barely touching. The hand on my breast was gently kneading the sensitive flesh. I could feel my nipple growing harder, pressing against her palm.
I reached up, putting my arms around her, pulling her closer. Her lips pressed tighter against mine, her tongue sliding out, finding my own, the soft yet firm penetration so delightful, as ever it had been. I had one hand on her arse, my fingers working, pulling up the soft fabric of her night dress until they were touching the pale, rounded flesh.
‘Do you remember that thing we used to do?’ she asked, momentarily breaking off from our frantic kissing and caressing.
‘I remember a lot of things we used to do,” I laughed, my hand still kneading her naked arse.
Suzanne giggled prettily. ‘I think we may be over-dressed.’
I nodded agreement. We broke apart for the few moments it required to shed our night dresses, so that we were revealed in our natural glory in the dim glow of the lamps.
Suzanne is such a lovely girl. She stands only two inches over five feet tall, two inches shorter than me, and I would be very much surprised to find she weighs more than eight stone, or even that much. Her breasts are lovely, high and firm, with hard, dark nipples that still show some of the puffiness of youth. As we were ready for bed, her coppery-red hair was loose, falling halfway down her back. In the lamplight, the dense red patch covering her mound was like fire.
With a firm but gentle touch, Suzanne pushed me back on the bed, so that I was lying flat on my back. Carefully, she lifted one leg over me, so that she was straddling me, facing away from me. She leaned down, bringing her lovely quim just above my chin, while I could feel her fingers at work on my own, parting the sensitive lips before she dipped her head and began to lick at the tingling bud within.
I pulled her down closer, began to lick her inviting pink slit. She still tasted quite as good as she had when we were students. I am somewhat fond of the pungent taste of spunk, but, to be honest, I love the taste of an aroused woman’s quim even more. To have my tongue buried in a lover’s cunt while she is tonguing mine is quite the most wonderful experience I can imagine. One I have mostly neglected since leaving school, as it was obvious I could not bring my lovely Suzanne with me, but had to be satisfied with having her on those rare occasions when she could visit. Too rare, really, for this was the first time we had been intimate together since our graduation.
My body was trembling all over as Suzanne’s ever-talented tongue sent erotic sensations shooting through my body like electric sparks. It was all I could do to keep from crying out in ecstasy as I began to climax.
I feel so wicked writing all of this in my journal. I am sure it is fortunate that I use my own private cipher to write, for it would be embarrassing in the extreme should anyone but me ever be able to read this. I try to be completely honest within these pages, something not really expected, or accepted, in a woman.
Thoroughly satisfied, we soon fell asleep in each other’s arms, as we had so often done on those cold winter’s nights at school. We did not bother to put on our night dresses again, hoping, perhaps, that when we rose for breakfast we could have each other as the first course.
Wednesday, 3rd July— I think I shall have to adopt my darling Anna’s habit of writing her diary in a private code. There is so much I want to set down here, yet I know my dear mother sometimes manages to read this, and I would not wish to scandalise her. For now, though, not having the time or patience to devise my own system on the spot, I shall simply switch to writing this in the Pitman short-hand we learned in school. I know my mother cannot read it, though it will not conceal my thoughts from Anna, who is quite as proficient as I, or from any other short-hand reader. I really must work out a less obvious cipher.
I slept very soundly, once we two had satisfied our hungers. It was well past dawn when we arose. Anna rang for O’Leary—her Christian name, Anna tells me, is Maureen, a lovely Irish lass from Balbriggan—and, as she had promised, she had ironed my wrinkled dresses. Having a proper lady’s maid was a great help for Anna, whose clothing is both luxurious and awkward to manage without aid. I am not so reliant on servants for these things, so I was quite able to dress myself. One must simply avoid anything that fastens in the back.
Last night brought back many pleasant memories of school. I fear I was never a particularly good student, and, for the most part, never cared for school. But sharing a room with Anna was quite another thing. If I loathed my lessons, I adored my roommate.
I still quite vividly recall the first time we slept together. It was a bitter cold December night, just a week after my eighteenth birthday, and even with extra coal on the fire our room was still quite chilly. My darling Anna—she had forbidden me to address her as “Lady Anna” when we were alone, arguing that formality had no place between best friends—suggested that I join her on her cot, where we could share our bodily warmth.
‘It will help keep us warm,’ she told me.
I was chilled, so I readily agreed to the experiment. I climbed into her narrow bed and snuggled up to her.
‘It might be better,’ she suggested, ‘if we remove our night dresses. Bare skin certainly transfers more heat than thick wool.’
She was correct. We removed our night dresses, spreading them atop the blankets, where they might provide a bit of additional cover. I was warmer almost at once, with our naked bodies pressed against each other under the covers.
What followed was astonishing. Somehow, we began kissing. I think darling Anna said something about never having kissed a boy, and wondering what it felt like. I lacked that experience as well, but was certainly willing to experiment with her. It was too cold in our room to get truly creative, but we spent a long time teaching each other how to kiss, letting the sensations take over. Our hands explored each other’s bodies, and I absolutely thrilled when my darling’s fingers began to explore my nether regions.
Over the rest of that final year, we were constantly experimenting, finding new ways to bring each other to a shattering climax. We knew we were wicked to be doing these things, of course, but we didn’t care. What society doesn’t know, society cannot condemn. The first time Anna began to tongue my pretty pink quim I knew that this was something I wanted to happen as often as possible.
So it was a special delight last night—or, perhaps, I should say this morning—to find us once again naked in the same bed. Being a warm night, we could push the sheets and blankets down to the foot of the big bed, so that we might gaze lovingly upon each other’s nude forms in the soft, dim lamplight. Anna is such an exquisite beauty, with her slender frame and large, beautiful breasts, and her long, silky blond hair falling down her back, or spread behind her on the pillow.
One who knew her only casually might think her a bit aloof, with the haughtiness that comes of being the daughter of a peer. I know her much more intimately, and what she reveals when we are alone is nothing at all like the façade she presents to strangers. With me, she is warm and loving. She is my dearest friend, and a wonderful lover.
Later— There was a most curious incident in the stables to-day. I was walking with Anna in the early afternoon, and our route brought us to the stables. It might have been a lovely day for a ride, had we been appropriately dressed.
We entered the stables to examine the horses, as we certainly intended to ride at some time during my visit. We were attracted by a rhythmic grunting and pounding sound from the box at the far end, so, being curious, we walked over there to see what it was.
It proved to be one of the grooms, who had a kitchen maid bent over a bale of fodder, with her skirts up on her back. He was vigorously plunging his impressive member in and out of her quim, and she was just as energetically pushing back against him.
The box was closed, and we were looking in through a wide space between two boards in the door. We could see them, as they coupled inside, but they could not see us. It allowed us to watch, fascinated. As I said, the groom was quite handsomely endowed, and his big organ glistened in the light of a box window from the maid’s sweet juices.
The maid was moaning loudly now, her breath catching, becoming ragged, and I knew just from the sound that she was in the midst of a lovely climax. Unable to resist, I found myself hiking up my skirts and slipping a finger into my own succulent cunt.
Beside me, Anna was doing the same. It would have been a fascinating scene to an outsider, two young women outside a box stall, peering through a crack in the door, each with a hand holding her privates, rubbing them, seeking relief from the sexual tension generated by watching the two servants who were fucking inside the box.
I put my left arm around Anna’s slender waist, pulling her closer to me. She put her right arm around me in response. Allowing her skirts to drop back down for a moment, she placed her free hand on top of mine as I diddled myself. I carefully removed my hand, allowing her to take over, and freeing that hand to lift up her skirts and insert a finger into her moist, fragrant centre.
We had to leave ourselves unsatisfied, for just about then the groom groaned loudly and thrust hard into the maid’s cunt. From the way his body was jerking, I could tell that he was climaxing. I knew it would be a matter of only a few seconds, certainly no longer than a minute, before he had hoisted up his trousers and emerged from the stall. We beat a hasty retreat from the stable and resumed our walk.
Looking back when we were two or three hundred yards from the stable, we saw the maid hurry out and rush back to the house. We did not see the groom emerge, and I presumed that was because he was already in his workplace.
We continued to the Old House, unused since the New Lodge was built. It was a big, rather eerie-looking place, built in the half-timbered style popular during the Tudor period.
‘Most of the façade was built during the reign of Richard III, and the oldest part was erected in the eleventh century,’ Anna informed me. ‘There is absolutely nothing modern about the place. When we still lived here, when I was still a small child, it was hot in the summer and cold and draughty if the winter. If you wanted to bathe, you used an iron tub in the kitchen. Chamber pots took care of other needs. I do not miss it.’
I thought of the luxurious bathrooms in the New Lodge. Her opinion was understandable.
Still, we ventured inside. Most of the furnishings had been moved to the New Lodge, but a few rooms retained their fixtures. The library walls were still lined with shelves, now empty, the books transported to new shelves in the new house. Cushions remained on the window seat, however, presumably because they would not have fit had they been moved. We sat down upon them and looked out through the thick, diamond-paned leaded windows, across a vast expanse of green lawn, and into the dense woodland beyond.
Who could say what the occupants had once seen through those windows? Had Yorkist and Lancastrian armies once marched past? Or paused to camp for the night, or to fight some minor skirmish as Henry Tudor sought to wrest control of England from the cruel usurper, Richard, before their final encounter at Bosworth Field?
Now there were only sheep, and a few small, brown cows grazing on the lawn, their munching keeping the grass trimmed.
‘I fear we were interrupted before time,’ Anna commented, taking my hands in hers. She lifted my right hand to her nose and sniffed at my fingers with a pleased look. She sucked my middle finger into her mouth, sighing contentedly, no doubt tasting herself, for only a few minutes before that finger had been probing deeply in her pretty cunt.
‘We were, indeed,’ I agreed, leaning forward and kissing her sweet lips. She held me tightly, and we exchanged feverish kisses, sitting there on the window seat, with the warm sun shining upon us through the thick glass.
Both of us were reaching down with one hand, pulling up each other’s skirts and petticoats, ever so eager to continue where we had left off in the stable. Anna’s sweet cunt was still moist and slick with the dewy nectar of her passion. My fingers slipped easily inside her, probing deeply, even as the heel of my hand pressed and caressed that lovely pink nub wherein lies the centre of a woman’s pleasure.
We were, of course, quite aware that what we were doing was ‘wrong,’ but neither of us cared now any more than we had cared back at school. To hell with propriety was my thought, and I am sure Anna would agree with that proposition. A woman must, naturally, seek a husband, and endure congress with a man, if she wishes to fulfil her natural function as a mother, but the love and passion enjoyed by two women transcends the brief, brutal couplings which seem to be all that men are capable of.
No man can provide intimate service for more than a few minutes, whilst two women are able to enjoy each other, body and soul, for hours upon end, until every nerve, every fibre of their being, has been stimulated and satisfied to the very peak of erotic ecstasy.
I was feeling an incredible upwelling of love and eroticism at just that moment, with Anna’s lips pressed sensuously against mine, and her fingers working deep within me. My body was trembling. It was difficult to breath, one prolonged spasm of erotic pleasure following rapidly upon the tail of another.
We confined our play to kissing and touching, for it seemed impractical to fully disrobe in the old house, but that hardly mattered. I cannot recall how many times my body convulsed to a powerful climax, nor how often my darling Anna joined me in that ultimate expression of sensuality. I know only that, by the time we ceased, both of us could hardly rise to our feet, for we were both physically spent to the degree that we could hardly walk, and mentally exhausted, as if extreme pleasure had temporarily dulled all of our senses.
The rest of the day was something of an anti-climax. We walked back to the New Lodge hand in hand. We joined Edwin—I suppose I really should call him Lord Muntglare, but he has always been Edwin to me—for supper. We read in the library for a few hours after supper, fortified by a glass of two of brandy. All quite routine.
Now O’Leary has been in and helped Anna undress. She even insisted upon helping me, though I always make it a practice to dress in a manner than doesn’t require any such help. Now she has gone, and Anna has locked the bedroom door and is sitting naked, looking ravishing, on the edge of the bed, looking at me and smiling enticingly.
I think I’ve written enough for this day.
Thursday, 4th July— Anna’s school friend is a welcome addition to the household. I shall enjoy having her here for the next few weeks. She seems a delightful young woman, full of vigour and good cheer. She is also quite lovely. I must admit a weakness for red hair, and hers is that alluring shade of coppery red which, combined with her milky complexion and wonderful figure, must make her the amorous target of every man she encounters. My sister is a beauty, but Suzanne is stunning.
I spoke to my sister shortly after Suzanne arrived and enquired if the two of them might consent to my taking a few photographs of them. Anna has modelled for me on many occasions, and is familiar with my skills, which, I like to believe, are of quite a high level. It would not do to exhibit my photographs, of course, yet I think they are the equal of any produced by photographic artists of the plebeian sort.
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