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"Randiana, Excitable Tales" shows what life was like when the rich were wealthy and the poor had to turn to prostituton just to earn a crust of bread. And how did a rich British Lord with money and time to burn while away the days between chairing meetings of the local society for the suppression of Vice.It is a long-censored erotic classic. From ball rooms to bordellos, "Randiana, Excitable Tales" looks beneath the glittering facade of Victorian hypocrisy."Randiana, Excitable Tales" is a classic Victorian erotic novel, published in 1884. It contains graphic sexual descriptions and themes.
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Liczba stron: 149
Those of my readers who peruse the following pages and expect to find a pretty tale of surpassing interest, embellished with all the spice which fiction can suggest and a clever pen supply, will be egregiously mistaken, and had better close the volume at once. I am a plain matter-of-fact man, and relate only that which is strictly true, so that no matter how singular some of my statements may appear to those who have never passed through a similar experience, the avouchment that it is a compendium of pure fact may serve to increase the zest with which I hope it may be read.
I was born some fifty years ago in the little town of H-, about seven miles from the sea, and was educated at the grammar school, an old foundation institute, almost as old as the town itself.
Up to the age of sixteen I had remained in perfect ignorance of all those little matters which careful parents are so anxious to conceal from their children; nor, indeed, should I then have had my mind enlarged had it not been for the playful instincts of my mother’s housemaid, Emma, a strapping but comely wench of nineteen, who, confined to the house all the week and only allowed out for a few hours on Sunday, could find no vent for those passionate impulses which a well-fed, full-blooded girl of her years is bound to be subject to occasionally, and more especially after the menstrual period.
It was, I remember well, at one of these times that I was called early by my mother one morning and told to go and wake Emma up, as she had overslept herself, and the impression produced upon me as barefooted and in my nightshirt I stepped into the girl’s room and caught her changing the linen bandage she had been wearing round her fanny was electrical.
“Good gracious, Emma,” I said, “what is the matter? You will bleed to death.” And in my anxiety to be of assistance, I tried to get hold of the rag where the dark crimson flood had saturated it worst.
In my haste my finger slipped in, rag and all, and my alarm was so great that had it not been for Emma laughing I believe I should have rushed downstairs and awakened the whole house.
“Don’t you be a little fool, Master Jimmy,” said Emma, “but come up tonight when your father and mother are both gone to bed, and I’ll show you how it all occurred. I see you’re quite ready to take a lesson,” she added, grinning, for my natural instinct had supervened on my first panic, and my nightshirt was standing out as though a good old-fashioned tent pole were underneath.
I had been frequently chafed at school about the size of my penis, which was unnaturally large for a boy of my years, but I have since found that it was an hereditary gift in our family, my father and younger brothers all boasting instruments of enormous build.
I turned reluctantly to leave the bedroom, but found it impossible to analyse my feelings, which were tumultuous and strange.
I had caught sight of a little bush of hair on the bottom of Emma’s belly, and it perplexed me exceedingly.
Impelled by an impulse I could not then comprehend, but which is understandable enough now, I threw myself into Emma’s arms and kissed her with fond ardour, my hands resting on two milk-white globes which peeped above the edge of her chemise. Just then I heard my mother’s voice-
“James, what are you doing up there?”
“Nothing, mamma; I was only waking Emma up.” And I came downstairs hurriedly, with my boy’s brain on fire and longing for the night, which might, I thought, make plain to me all this mystery.
That day at school appeared a dream and the time hung heavily; I went mechanically through my lessons, but seemed dazed and thoughtful; indeed so much so that I was the subject of general remark.
One of the boys, Thompson, the dull boy of the class, who was nearly seventeen, came to me after school was over and enquired what was the matter.
I suddenly resolved to ask Thompson; he was my senior and might know.
“Can you tell me,” I said, “the difference between a boy and a girl?”
This was too much for Thompson, who began to split with uncontrollable laughter.
“Good God, Clinton,” he said (he swore horribly), “what a question. But I forgot you have only one sister, and she’s in long clothes.”
“Well,” I replied, “but what has that to do with it?”
“Why, everything,” said Thompson, “if you’d been brought up among girls you’d have seen all they’ve got, and then you’d be as wise as other boys. Look here,” suddenly stopping and taking out a piece of slate pencil, “you see this?” And he drew a very good imitation of a man’s prick upon his slate.
“Do you know what that is?”
“Of course I do,” I said, “haven’t I got one!”
“I hope so,” replied Thompson with a smartness I hadn’t up to that time thought him to possess.
“Well, now look at this.” And he drew what appeared to me at the time to be a lengthy slit. “Do you know what that is?”
After what I had seen in the morning I could form a shrewd guess, but I feigned complete ignorance to draw Thompson out.
“Why, that’s a woman’s cunt, you simpleton,” observed my schoolmate, “and if you ever have a chance of getting hold of one, grab it, my boy, and don’t be long before you fill it with what God Almighty has given you,” and he ran away and left me.
I was more astonished than ever. I had lived sixteen years in the world and had learned more since six o’clock that morning than in all the preceding time.
The reader may be assured that, although I had to go to bed tolerably early, I kept awake until I heard my father and mother safely in their room.
My mother always made it a special point to come and see that I had not thrown the covers off, as I was a restless sleeper, and on this occasion I impatiently awaited the usual scrutiny.
After carefully tucking me in I watched her final departure with beating heart, and heard her say to my father as the door closed-
“He was covered tonight; last evening he was a perfect sight, his prick standing up as stiff and straight as yours ever did-and such a size, too: I can’t imagine where my boys get them from. You are no pigmy, dear, it is true, but I’m sure my brothers as boys were -” And I lost the rest of the sentence as the door closed.
Now, I thought, is about the right moment, and I slid softly out of bed and across the landing to the staircase which was to lead me to heaven.
How often since then have I likened that happy staircase to the ladder which Jacob dreamed of. I’ve always considered that dream an allegory: Jacob’s angels must have worn petticoats or some Eastern equivalent, and the Patriarch doubtless moistened the sands of Bethel thinking about it in his sleep.
I reached her bedroom door without mishap and found her safely ensconced in bed, but with the candle still burning.
“Come here, dear,” she said, throwing back the covers, and for the first time in my life I saw a perfectly naked woman.
She had purposely left off her chemise and was stretched out there, a repast for the Gods.
I do not know that, with all my experience of Paphian delicacies since, I ever have viewed any skin more closely resembling the soft peach bloom which is the acme of coetaneous beauty.
Her plump breasts stood out as though chiselled by some cunning sculptor, but my eyes were not enchained by them.
They wandered lower to that spot which to me was such a curious problem, and I said-
“May I look?”
She laughed, and opening her legs, answered me without saying a word.
I examined it closely, and was more and more puzzled.
Her menses had passed and she had carefully washed away the stains.
“Put your finger in,” she said, “it won’t bite you; but haven’t you really, Master Jimmy, ever seen one of these things before?”
I assured her that I had not.
“Then in that case,” said Emma, “I shall have some virgin spoil tonight.” And passing her hand under my nightshirt, she took hold of my prick with a quick movement that surprised me, and although it was proudly erect and seemed ready to burst, she worked it up and down between her thumb and forefinger till I was fairly maddened.
“Oh! for God’s sake,” I murmured, “don’t do that, I shall die.”
“Not yet, my darling,” she said, taking hold of me and lifting me, for she was a girl of enormous muscular power, on top of her. “Not until I have eased my own pain and yours too.”
Emma called passion pain, and I have since proved her to be some sort of a philosopher. I have carefully analysed that terrible feeling which immediately precedes the act of emission, and find pain the only proper word to express it.
I struggled with her at first, for in my innocence I scarcely knew what to make of her rapid action, but I had not long to remain in doubt.
Holding my prick in her left hand and gently easing back the prepuce, which had long since broken its ligature, though through no self-indulgence on my part, she brought it within the lips of her orifice, and then with a quick jerk which I have since thought was almost professional, I found myself buried to the extreme hilt in a sea of bliss.
I instinctively found myself moving up and down with the regular see-saw motion that friction will unconsciously compel, but I need not have moved, for Emma could have managed the whole business herself.
The movement of her hips and her hands, which firmly grasped the cheeks of my fat young arse, soon produced the desired result, and in my ecstasy I nearly fainted.
At first I thought that blood in a large quantity had passed from me and I whispered to Emma that the sheets would be stained red, and then Mamma would know, but she soon quieted my fears.
“What an extraordinary prick you have, Master James, for one so young. Why it’s bigger than your father’s.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, surprised more than ever.
“Well, my dear, that would be telling,” she said, “but now that you have tried what a woman is like, what do you think of it?”
“I think it’s simply splendid,” was my response; and indeed, although long years of varied experience may have dulled the wild ardour of youth, and a fuck is hardly the mad excitement which it was, I should find it difficult to improve upon the answer I gave to Emma.
Twice more I essayed valiantly to escalade the fortress of my inamorata, and each time she expressed astonishment to think a mere child should have such “grit” in him.
All at once I heard a slight noise on the stairs, and thinking it was my mother, hastily slunk under the bed; the candle was still burning.
“Are you asleep, Emma?” whispered a low voice. It was my father’s.
“Lor’, sir,” she said, “I hope the missus didn’t hear you coming up. I thought you said it was to be tomorrow.”
“I did,” replied my father, “but to tell you the truth I couldn’t wait. I put a drop of laudanum in your mistress’s glass of grog just before retiring, so she’s safe enough.”
And this man called himself my father? I need scarcely say I lost all my respect for him from that moment.
Not another word was passed, but peeping from my hiding-place I saw by the shadow on the wall that my father was preparing for immediate action, yet he went about it a very different way from me.
He insisted upon her taking his penis into her mouth, which at first she refused, but after some little solicitation and a promise that she should go to the “fairing” which was to be held on the following Friday, she finally consented, and to see my father’s shadow wriggling about on the wall while his arse described all manner of strange and to me unnatural contortions, was a sight that even at this distance of time never fails to raise a smile whenever I think of it.
Presently the old man shouted out, “Hold on, Emma, that’s enough, let’s put it in now.”
But Emma was shrewd; she knew what a frightfully drowned-out condition her fanny was in and felt sure my father, with his experience, would smell a rat, so she held on to his tool with her teeth and refused to let go till my father, between passion and pain, forced it away from her. But judge of his disgust when he found himself spending before he could reach the seat of bliss.
His curses took my breath away.
“You silly bitch,” he said, “you might have known I couldn’t stand that long,” and still muttering despondent oaths, he got out of bed to make water.
Now unfortunately the chamber pot was close to my head, and Emma’s exhaustion after the quadruple performance was so great that for the moment she forgot me.
The exclamation of my father as he stooped down and caught sight of his eldest boy recalled her to herself.
I would rather draw a veil over the scene that ensued.
Suffice it to say that Emma received a month’s wages in the morning, and I was packed off to a boarding school.
My mother had not slept so soundly as my father had fondly hoped. Whether the laudanum was not of first-rate quality, or her instincts were prematurely sharp, I have never been able to determine, but I do know that before my rather had dragged me from underneath Emma’s bed on that eventful night he was saluted from behind with a blow from a little bedroom poker, which would have sent many a weaker constitutioned man to an untimely grave.
Having in the last two chapters related my first boyhood experience in love, I think it will equal any to be found in works of greater fame, but I do not intend to weary you with any further relations of my early successes on the Venusian warpath.
I pass over the period of my youth and very early manhood, leaving you to imagine that my first lesson with Emma and my father as joint instructors was by no means thrown away.
Yet I found at the age of thirty that I was only on the threshold of mysteries far more entrancing. I had up to that time been a mere man of pleasure, whose ample fortune (for my father, who had grown rich, did not disinherit me when he died) sufficed to procure any of those amorous delights without which the world would be a blank to me.
But further than the ordinary pleasures of the bed I had not penetrated.
“The moment was, however, approaching when all these would sink into insignificance before those greater sensual joys which wholesome and well-applied flagellation will always confer upon its devotees.” I quote the last sentence from a well-known author, but I’m far from agreeing with it in theory or principle.
I was emerging one summer’s evening from the Cafe Royal in Regent Street, when De Vaux, a friend of long standing whom I was with, nodded to a gentleman passing in a hansom who at once stopped the cab and got out.
“Who is it?” I said, for I felt a sudden and inexplicable interest in his large lustrous eyes, eyes such as I have never before seen in any human being.
“That is Father Peter, of St Martha of the Angels. He is a bircher, my boy, and one of the best in London.”
At this moment we were joined by the Father and a formal introduction took place.
I had frequently seen admirable cartes of Father Peter, or rather, as he preferred to be called, Monsignor Peter, in the shop windows of the leading photographers, and at once accused myself of being a dolt not to have recognised him at first sight.
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